Back Story
by pgrabia
Summary: What was going on behind the scenes and in Dr. James Wilson's thoughts and motivations during the latter part of S.7.  H/W preslash/slash.  Spolers for all seasons and eps upto and inc. ep 7x23 "Moving On".  Coarse language, explicit sexuality, violence.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7).

You will recognize the dialogue from scenes taken directly out of canon and used here. Since I certainly don't want to plagiarize or claim them as my own I will be presenting them in a different font for now. If anyone has a better idea of how I can make it clear I didn't write those lines let me know. My part in those portions will be in describing the physical actions that you would normally 'see' and adding thoughts and commentary that I feel were taking place at the time. Hopefully you'll see what I mean as you read. I will be writing parts that are not part of canon as well and mixing it all together. I hope I don't confuse you too badly.

Also, this is not beta-ed; my usual beta is a bit overloaded right now with work and writing her own fics plus she acts as beta for other writers. Consequently I want to give her a break for now. If anyone is willing to take on beta-ing for a woman who can't spell or punctuate, has terrible grammar skills, and can be stubborn as a mule sometimes, please let me know;). I'm uncertain how many chapters this will have but I'm pretty certain it won't be as long as my other multi-chaptered fic on the go, _Resurrection_.

**Back Story**

Chapter One

Dr. James Wilson nearly struck the car in front of him in the busy morning traffic when Lisa Cuddy, his boss at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, made her announcement over the phone. He shook his head, not wanting to believe that he'd heard her correctly. Realizing that it wasn't wise for him to continue driving during this particular conversation he took the next right-hand turn onto a side-street and pulled over to the curb.

"But why?" he asked, completely baffled by this turn in events. "He's done _everything _you've wanted from him since he missed your award ceremony. He even found the courage to be by your side when you fell ill. Sure, it took him a little longer than one would like but he still was there, Lisa. Why, after all these months, would you break up with House?"

A sigh preceded her answer. "Because he could only be there for me at the hospital by getting high first."

Wilson felt his stomach flip and a sense of dread wash over him. "What do you mean, 'high'?"

"What do you _think_ I mean?" she retorted impatiently. "House was high when he came to me, Wilson. When I confronted him on it he tried to lie to me but when he realized it wasn't going to work he came clean on the fact that he'd taken a Vicodin to find the courage to show up. I need a man who doesn't have to be high to support me when I need him most—"

Cuddy continued her tirade on how his best friend fell short of what she deserved in a lover but Wilson stopped listening to her after he'd heard the word Vicodin. After nearly two years of sobriety and a lot of stressful situations along the bumpy road House had travelled since his release from Mayfield, he'd relapsed and gone back to the drugs to deal with Cuddy's illness; which, at the time, looked to be very serious in nature, perhaps even terminal, but had turned out to be not all that serious after all. House had battled his demons so hard only to lose the fight and for what? To satisfy the needs of a woman who was never satisfied with anything House had done for her and the sacrifices he'd made against the very core of his nature to prove to her that he could be the man she expected him to be—only to be dumped by her when he made the biggest sacrifice yet?

Wilson saw red; rarely did he ever become as angry with someone as he was with Lisa Cuddy at that moment. His fingers were white-knuckled from how hard he gripped the steering wheel with one hand and the cellphone with the other. It took everything he had not to tell her to shut up and stop behaving like a spoiled rotten brat who didn't deserve someone as committed and special as Gregory House. It was obvious that she truly held no appreciation for the sacrifice House had made in order to comfort her and be a good, loving, dutiful partner to her.

Instead he took several deep breaths during her bitching, exhaling slowly through his mouth in an effort to calm himself down enough to talk without risking the future of his career in doing so. For both House's sake and his Wilson had to be wise here.

"But he said he only took the one Vicodin? Did I hear you right?" he interrupted her evenly.

"Yes," Cuddy acknowledged, "but one is one too many. I can't have a drug addict around my daughter—"

"You have had a drug addict around your daughter for months now," Wilson pointed out more sharply than he would have liked. "House has been a drug addict for years and he always will be, whether he's currently sober or not. It's a chronic disease that doesn't just disappear because you close your eyes and pretend that it has. You're a doctor, you knew that when you entered your relationship with House, when you let him bond with Rachel."

"That's because I thought he was serious about his sobriety," she defended. "Obviously I was wrong if he went running back to the Vicodin to be able to fill a role that a normal person is capable of sober."

"But House _isn't_ normal, Cuddy," Wilson insisted, feeling his temper rise again. "You know that, or you should after knowing him since college and working with him for over ten years! My god! You started your relationship during his first year of recovery as an addict which we both know is a critical period of time in the process—didn't it occur to you even once that maybe you've been expecting too much of House too soon?"

"Expecting my boyfriend to behave like a reasonable adult is expecting too much too soon? Well, if that's the case then I made a huge mistake."

_Or _House_ did,_ Wilson said under his breath, finding that the longer he continued to talk to Cuddy the more he wanted to slap some sense into her. Out loud: "Look, this isn't the time to get into this. When did this happen exactly and how upset was he?"

"Last night," Cuddy said wearily. "But he—"

"Last _night_?" Wilson echoed, sounding like he was groaning at the same time. "And you're only just calling me _now_? Do you realize what this break-up will do to him? You have no idea how badly he wanted to make his relationship with you work! No doubt he was devastated and in that frame of mind he could be very self-destructive."

"Well he wasn't the only one who was upset last night," Cuddy snapped. "This has been hard on me, too. I didn't sleep a wink and my poor sister sat up with me most of the night trying to comfort me…."

Again, Wilson tuned her out, unwilling to hear her hunt for sympathy from him after she was the one who chose to punish House for being House, the man she had claimed to love as-is. As far as Wilson was concerned she deserved to suffer many nights of guilt-ridden insomnia but he bit back saying so.

"Do you know if he's still at home right now?" Wilson demanded, anxious to hang up on her as soon as possible.

"I have no idea where he is," Cuddy replied. "He's probably sleeping off a self-pity-and-drug-fueled drunken binge, for all I know. Wilson?"

Wilson's gritted his teeth, struggling to sound civil. "What?"

"I know I hurt him and it doesn't make me happy knowing that."

"I should hope not," Wilson told her coolly. "I don't know if I'll make it to work today because I'll be hunting for House and praying to god that I find him alright." Before she could say anything more Wilson's thumb pressed the End button.

Immediately Wilson called House's apartment on speed dial. There was no answer and House's answering machine didn't even pick up. Feeling nauseated, Wilson next tried House at his cell phone. It rang several times before it was picked up.

"I was-sh wondering how long it would take you to call," House answered lightly, slurring. "And no, I don't want to sssee you or anyone elssse today. Tomorrow, Wil-shon. And don't bother looking for me at my apartment or any of my other haunts 'cau-sh I won't be there. I'll t-talk to you tomorrow."

"House," Wilson said, talking quickly in anticipation being hung up on any moment, "I'm concerned about you; you shouldn't be alone right now. Where are you—?"

"I'll ca-call you tomo-morrow," House repeated, hiccupping, and now he could tell that his friend definitely was more than a little drunk which didn't really surprise him all that much; When Sam had walked out on him, Wilson had gone on a bit of a bender, too.

"House—" Wilson began to protest but was hung-up on. He exhaled loudly in exasperation and dropped his cell phone onto the passenger's seat in defeat. Tomorrow? The amount of trouble House could wreak over the next twenty-four hours was enough to turn Wilson's blood cold and bring on one whopper of a tension headache.

_Damnit, Cuddy!_ Wilson thought in anger. _Look at what you've done now!_ If anything serious happened to House after this, he knew he would make certain that Cuddy was held personally responsible.

**~H/W~**

Wilson was on his way out of his office for the day when his personal assistant, Sandy, caught him holding a small pink memo slip in her hand.

"Oh good, I caught you before you left, Dr. Wilson," she said with a friendly smile. "Dr. House called while you were in the clinic and left you this message." She handed the slip to him. "He said it was important that you got it before you left for the day."

Smiling in return Wilson accepted the slip from her with a thank you. He immediately read it. It said: _Princeton Grand Resort, suite 527, 10 AM tomorrow. No sooner. I'm fine. House._

"This is it? He didn't tell you anything more?" Wilson asked her hopefully. The message was so cryptic that he couldn't glean anything about House's true state of mind from it.

"No, I'm sorry," Sandy told him with an apologetic shrug. "He did stress, however, that you were not to come any sooner than the time he gave you and, well…."

Wilson frowned at her hesitancy. "Well what, Sandy?"

"He sounded, well, a little…tipsy," she said diplomatically. Wilson sighed and pocketed the memo. He was certain that House was a hell of a lot more than just tipsy. He hoped that his friend was high on alcohol alone, but a nagging buzz in his ear told him otherwise.

"Thanks, Sandy," he told her with a small smile and a nod of appreciation. "Have a good night."

"The same to you, Dr. Wilson," his assistant wished him and then walked away.

_Not very likely,_ Wilson mused darkly as he locked his office door and headed for the elevator with his rain slicker draped over one arm and carrying his briefcase.

He was passing the DDx Room when he heard a voice call out his name. He sighed and considered ignoring it but then realized that Martha Masters wouldn't be put off that easily. Like her boss, Masters could be as tenacious as a terrier when she wanted to be. Wilson smirked ever-so-slightly, picturing the look he would receive from House if he were to tell him that he shared traits with the little spy Cuddy had planted on his team, supposedly to act as a temporary replacement for Thirteen during her leave of absence.

Wilson stopped and turned into the room where Master's sat at the long conference table alone with her laptop. Seeing him approach she smiled girlishly (well, actually, she really _wasn't_ much more than a girl, Wilson reasoned), and tucked a strand of her straight, ruddy hair behind her ear. Her smile quickly morphed into a frown, however.

"Dr. Wilson, there are rumors going around that Dr. Cuddy came in to work late today and that she's been holed up in her office avoiding people and then Dr. House didn't call to tell us that he wasn't planning on showing up today…is there something wrong, something that perhaps we should be concerned about?" She looked over her shoulders and began to whisper conspiratorially; it would have been comical if Wilson hadn't been so worried about House himself. "Is House's relationship with Cuddy in trouble?"

The only person Wilson liked gossiping with was House, so he certainly wasn't about to gossip about his best friend with some nerdy Mata Hari.

"House isn't feeling well so he took a sick day," Wilson told her; there was enough truth to what he said to help him avoid feeling guilty about the part that wasn't. "I have no idea why Cuddy was running late but everybody has a day like that on occasion. She does have a preschooler at home. As far as their relationship—you'll have to ask them, but if I were you…I wouldn't."

With that Wilson turned and walked out, not interested in giving Masters an opportunity to fish for further information.

As he drove home Wilson had to fight the urge to turn off of the expressway at the exit that would have taken him in the direction of the resort where House was staying. With each passing minute Wilson imagined House binging on Vicodin and alcohol, then passing out onto the floor and vomiting at the same time, aspirating on it and choking to death. The image was based on the real-life one of House in a similar situation years before on one particularly grim Christmas Eve.

Finding House like that had terrified Wilson more than infuriated him, despite the fact that the Oxycontin House had combined with booze and had nearly killed himself with had been stolen from one of Wilson's recently dead patients. Realizing how close he'd come to losing House forever had nearly driven Wilson to a nervous breakdown, all because of that goddamned Tritter and his mission to wreak revenge on House for humiliating him…

No, no that wasn't true. House had nearly died because he was an addict and Wilson had enabled him to stay that way long after Tritter had disappeared from their lives, up until House's use had led to opiate psychosis and a stay at Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital to detox and undergo rehab. Wilson had held out hope that he would never again have to find House on the verge of self-inflicted death again once House had returned from Mayfield and had truly made the effort to stay sober and undergo outpatient therapy.

Now, because of a broken heart inflicted by a bitch who had demanded but hadn't deserved House's love, trust and, hell, even his worship, Wilson knew he wouldn't have another good night's sleep again—or, at least not until House was clean and sober and in therapy once again. There was no guarantee that would ever happen again.

What pricked at Wilson's conscience the most, though, was the fact that if it weren't for him pushing House out of the loft so he could rush his relationship with Sam again, chances were House and Cuddy wouldn't have gotten together, she would be married to Lucas right now, and he and House…well, things could have been much, much different—better—from the way they were now between them

If he hadn't been so goddamned afraid of those stirrings he'd experienced for his best friend and hadn't run in panic into the arms of his ex-wife to delude himself into believing that his desire for House didn't exist.

Wilson forced himself to stay on the expressway and continue on his way back to the loft, hoping against past experience that he found House alive and well (relatively speaking) in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: M/NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Two

Wilson didn't sleep a wink all night, thinking about House and wondering what he was doing, if he was alright. He knew that there was no way that House was 'fine' but he hoped that his best friend was at least physically safe; if high, then not overdosing in a hotel room all alone.

Wilson got out of bed and turned off his alarm clock before it even had a chance to go off. He rubbed his face with his hands; in spite of the fact that he was exhausted he otherwise felt not too badly. Wilson forced himself to get up and head to the bathroom. He showered quickly, dressed, and blow-dried his hair before leaving the loft without breakfast. He called his PA in the car as he drove through morning traffic toward the Princeton Grand Resort and let her know that he wouldn't be in until the afternoon and asked her to reschedule a couple of appointments for him. She asked him he would be seeing House at some point during the day because Cuddy was on the warpath; she was angry that he hadn't shown up for work at all the day before and she had a new case for him and his team. Wilson assured her that he would pass along the message.

The resort where House was staying was a five-star, multi-storey complex with tennis courts visible as Wilson drove into the parking lot. He figured there was probably a pool somewhere as well. Fleetingly he wondered where House had found the money to stay at such a place but then reminded himself that House lived very simply and ever since they had met he'd managed to get Wilson to pay for him practically everywhere they went together. It was possible he had a large amount of money stashed away for a rainy day. What could be rainier than having the love of one's life break up with you?

Wilson felt his stomach turn a little at the thought of Cuddy being the one House loved more than anyone else. It shouldn't be her; she didn't deserve it. Whenever House had needed someone the most it certainly hadn't been Cuddy to be there for him, going the extra distance, with the exception of the night House and she had begun their relationship. He cursed both Sam and himself again for that. Sam had bitched so much about Wilson stopping that evening to check on House that he'd given in to her and headed straight home instead. If he had only done what he wanted, if he'd only been there for House that night perhaps all of this could have been avoided. No, it went further back than that. If he hadn't pressured House to leave the loft so he could move Sam in…

There was no point in dwelling on what was past. Wilson needed to focus on the present and how he could help House through this heartbreak and stave off a full-fledged relapse.

He parked his car and made his way quickly into the hotel. Since he already knew House's room number he didn't need to stop at the front desk. In the elevator Wilson tried to come up with something wise and memorable as his first words to House but still hadn't come up with anything by the time he reached the correct room. Taking a deep breath he psyched himself up for anything and then rapped on the wooden door.

A second or two passed before the door was opened. House stood there wearing a fluffy white hotel bathrobe tied loosely around the waist. Part of his chest was exposed; well defined pectorals and a fine patch of graying chest hair were visible. Wilson felt heat begin to burn in his stomach and his lower abdomen and told himself that he was not becoming aroused by his best friend's exposed…flesh.

_Get a grip, James! _he self-chastised.

"I'm fine," House told him evenly, walking back into the room as a silence invitation for Wilson to follow him, which he did.

"Okay," Wilson told him, not sounding at all convinced as he entered and shut the door behind him. He watched as House limped heavier than usual to the night stand and grabbed a sickeningly familiar amber pill bottle.

"I assume Cuddy told you that she dumped me?"

"She did," Wilson agreed, watching House carefully. He appeared to already be slightly intoxicated and his pupils were pinpoints, an indication that he was still high from pills he must have taken before Wilson had arrived. Yet, here House was about to take more.

House glanced at him briefly. "And that I'm back on Vicodin?" He poured two pills into the palm of his hand.

Wilson scowled. "She told me you took _a_ Vicodin."

"And then I took _a_ lot more," House confirmed, popping the pills into his mouth and dry-swallowing them. "And so on." He tossed the vial into a bowl on a nearby table. Wilson noticed for the first time that it was filled with cash.

This confession, combined with House's assurance of his well-being, irked Wilson. He knew his anger was covering a deeper emotion: Fear. "But you're _fine,_" he said cynically, shoving his hands in his pockets. He had the urge to try to smack some sense into House who was obviously devoid of any currently. His friend was making his way to the balcony.

"Well," House responded nonchalantly and picked up an open bottle of champagne, "not fine as in _fine_, but I'm fine as in you don't have to worry about me." As if in mockery of his own words House brought the champagne bottle to his mouth and took a large swig. Wilson sighed silently, worried; Vicodin and champagne: a breakfast of champions.

He'd told himself that he wouldn't lecture House since that never worked with the man and usually ended up backfiring on Wilson instead. However, he felt sick with concern. It was painful to watch House spiral back into drugs and self-destruction. Wilson had to express his concern. He thinly veiled his words in sarcasm and nodded mockingly.

"Because you've cleared out your bank account, checked into a hotel and started back on Vicodin."

Setting the bottle aside House met his gaze with slightly glassy eyes. Their azure blue depths often left Wilson feeling breathless when he looked into them but seeing so much blue because his pupils were constricted thanks to the opiate in House's system left him feeling empty instead.

"Because I'm _going_ to be fine as in _fine_ very soon," House defended.

_Remember, don't lecture,_ Wilson reminded himself. He pointed at the pill bottle sitting in the silver bowl. "Until that happens, are you sure Vicodin is the—"

House interrupted him as he said down to spare his bad leg unnecessary use. He set his cane down on the table where it was very much visible, a reminder of sorts. "My leg hurts."

Wilson had anticipated this excuse from House—it was the old standard when it came to House's list of justifications for abusing Vicodin. Wilson hadn't heard them for a long time but he'd never forgotten them. He knew that House's leg hurt but, all the same, House had managed to cope with only OTC painkillers for nearly two years.

"You've been able to handle the pain," he pointed out to his older friend.

"It's gotten worse," House argued without missing a beat; their conversation was becoming one giant example of déjà-vu for Wilson.

"Not physically worse."

"Worse is worse." House sounded like he was becoming exasperated with having to justify himself to Wilson. "Pain doesn't discriminate and neither do the pills. The Vicodin and the five-start pampering that I'm going to get over the next few days should be enough to get me through it."

Wilson couldn't help but notice that House couldn't meet his gaze as he spoke because they both knew that a few days of hedonistic debauchery wouldn't take care of the source of House's pain and eliminate it. It would take a great deal more than that.

That's what angered Wilson—the fact that House knew that what he was doing was a band-aid instead of a cure and really didn't seem to care. After working so hard to get his life in order, House appeared happy to throw all of that away.

"So you don't want to just avoid the issue," Wilson accused, unable to hide his frustration any longer, "you want to avoid _avoiding_ the issue. Sorry!" He lifted both hands up in a gesture of angry surrender to House's illogic.

House had been observing his reaction attentively, appraisingly, something that really irritated Wilson whenever he did it. "Nothing is either as bad or as good as we think it is at the time," he waxed philosophically. "That's why T.O. mocks his opponents immediately after scoring doesn't wait until his friend shows up the next day to tell him to deal with it."

Wilson stared at House incredulously, and rolled his eyes. At that moment there was a strong knock at the door. House reached into the bowl for a couple of bills before getting up to answer it.

"Two weeks from now, maybe a little more, maybe a little less," House informed him as he limped his way to the door, "my life will be back to its usual level of crappiness. Until then the only real issue is how much I'm going to spend on hotel charges."

Yanking open the door, House greeted an overweight, African-American concierge with a giant smile on his face, pushing a food cart bearing food. House stepped back to allow the hotel employ access to the room as he pushed the cart inside. Wilson looked at the silver service, the large coffee pot that steamed from the piping hot, delicious-scented beverage inside and the large covered platters. His stomach growled noisily but no one else seemed to notice.

"Good morning, sir!" the concierge greeted with far too much enthusiasm for ten in the morning. "Enjoy the deluxe breakfast for two." He looked expectantly at House and smiled even more broadly if that was possible.

House looked at the dish of large red strawberries and frown suspiciously. "Do I have to count the strawberries?"

A laugh began the response to that. "Don't worry, you can trust me with _anything_." Wilson noticed the concierge give House a knowing look that indicated that he was talking about more than just food. He picks up the coffee pot and begins to pour for them. "_Including_ your food."

Wilson turned away briefly to take in again the enormity of the suite but returned his attention quickly to House and the hotel employee when he heard House refer to him.

"After he and I have sex," House said, totally serious and pointing at Wilson, "I'm going to slit his throat and disembowel him in the bathtub."

Wilson sighed internally, not surprised by House's antics but still feeling a little embarrassed…and aroused—at the mention of he and House having sex, _not_ the disembowelment. He could feel his cheeks flushing.

"No problem," the concierge said without reaction and not skipping a beat, "I'll cancel the morning maid service. Would you like me to have them clean up later when they come down to turn down your bed?"

_Oh, yes,_ Wilson thought, _this one is about to get a good tip._

Sure enough, House looked impressed and smirked in amusement; he handed the employee what looked like a twenty. Wilson winced at the way House threw his money away just now.

"Why didn't I meet you six months ago?" House commented lightly.

Chuckling, the concierge accepted the tip. "Thank you very much! And if there is anything else I can do to make your stay here more enjoyable just ring the concierge desk and ask for Car-nell." He pointed out his name on his badge as if teaching a child to read phonetically and then turned and left.

House shut the door and then looked at Wilson; he picked up a strawberry, took a bite and then said as he chewed, "Eat fast—we're expecting company."

_Company?_ Wilson shook his head to himself, wondering who else House had invited over to entertain him on his little mini-holiday away from the reality of his life. It then occurred to Wilson that House may have been referring to _female_ company of the professional kind. House had used the word _we._ He hadn't called for a prostitute for Wilson as well as himself, had he? And if he had, what the hell logistic had House in mind. It was an open-plan suite with one king-size bed—what, were they supposed to be having an orgy or something?

Wilson chastised himself when his cock twitched at the thought of having sex involving House. He really had to get a grip on himself; it had been a long time since Wilson had had an intimate encounter with anyone other than his hand and just the thought of sex period made him very horny. Add House to his vivid imaginings and he could barely stand it. He was getting a woody and absolutely did not want House to know it.

Unfortunately, when Wilson looked at his friend he found House's eyes resting on the tenting in his pants before quickly flitting away as if he hadn't seen the obvious. Much to Wilson's relief, House didn't even mention it.

They sat down to eat. The food was excellent: scrambled eggs cooked perfectly, smoked ham, bacon, toast, shredded hash browns, pancakes with real butter and maple syrup, strawberries and cream, orange juice, and rich, delicious French roast coffee. Wilson ate far more than he knew he should have but it had all tasted so good and he'd been hungrier than he'd initially felt. Neither of them spoke much as they shoveled food into their mouths; they never did. Conversation came later as they sat back with their coffees and waited for House's 'guests' to arrive.

Wilson found himself staring at House's pecks again and crossed his legs, glad that there was a table between House and him but not to glad that the table top was made of clear glass.

"Anything you want to tell me, Jimmy?" House asked him over the rim of his coffee mug, brilliant blue eyes taking him in curiously.

Having no idea what he was talking about, Wilson shrugged and frowned quizzically. "Nothing I haven't already said. Why do you ask?"

House took a swallow of this coffee then set his mug down. "When I told you to come by this morning I didn't know you were going to bring a friend."

For a second Wilson felt panic form a vacuum around his heart; was it possible that the Vicodin was causing House to hallucinate another person with him? Now Wilson was genuinely confused. "A friend? What friend?"

"The one in your pocket," House answered, nodding indiscreetly at the mound that still existed in the front of Wilson's trousers, the one that Wilson had been trying to will away since before they sat to eat. "Or are you just really that happy to see me?"

Wilson felt himself flushing again. Damn that House! Did he always have to be so observant? Couldn't he just switch off that particular talent once in a while? How was he supposed to answer that? Should he lie and tell House that he was just thinking about some imaginary minx he saw crossing the road this morning or sitting in the lobby downstairs before he came up? Wilson knew that House could read him very well and a lie might be detected. Then again he'd lied to House before and gotten away with it.

But should he lie? Hadn't he been doing that his entire life, but never more so than since he'd met House and they had become friends. Weren't his lies to himself and House, which had led him to run into the waiting arms of Sam, to kick House out of the loft when he was clearly unready to live alone yet, the impetus to all of the drama of this past year in the first place? Would it really be the cause of the dissolution of their twenty year friendship if Wilson told House that he was in love with him, had been for years and had been running away from the fact for all that time? After all, House and he had been through hell and high water together, so would such a revelation, even if House didn't reciprocate his feeling, destroy this? Somehow Wilson didn't think so, and yet…

"Wilson?" House addressed him in an uncharacteristically gentle fashion.

He started and then looked at House. "Sorry, I was just lost in thought."

"About what?"

He forced himself to meet House's gaze.

Wilson's mouth suddenly felt like it was stuffed with cotton batting. "Uh…you, actually." He swallowed hard, ruing having just said that. He looked away and then furtively back at House in search of a reaction. "Uh, I was thinking that you should probably…uh, you know, um…get dressed before your company arrives."

House scowled skeptically and it was apparent that he wasn't buying it. His eyes moved purposely to Wilson's groin again, only precipitating it getting harder, if that was even possible.

"Look, House," Wilson continued, rubbing the back of his neck hard. "Can we just, um, drop the subject, please?" He hated the pleading sound of his own voice but he did feel desperate to end this particular topic of discussion.

House got up from the table and began to round it toward Wilson, staring at him intently. Since Wilson was averting his gaze from House's eyes he found them seeking out another part of House's body like a heat-seeking missile. He wasn't disappointed when he saw the slight tenting of House's robe, threatening to part it and expose him…

"I don't think we should," House replied, and there was huskiness about his voice that made Wilson squirm; his eyes were hooded and blazing with a heat that seemed to radiate off of him and warm Wilson as well. Was this really happening? Was House approaching him with a hard-on, as aroused by Wilson as Wilson was by him? "In fact, I think that maybe we should explore thi—"

Rapping on the door cut House off and he cut his sentence short. He looked torn between moving even closer to Wilson and continuing his line of thought and answering the door to whom was most likely the company he'd mentioned before breakfast. Wilson both wanted House to yell at whoever it was to go away and to continue with whatever it was he'd had in mind, something that they might or might not regret later.

Oh, who was he kidding? Wilson knew that he, for one, would certainly _not_ regret fucking or being fucked by his best friend.

"Should I get the door?" House whispered, his eyes searching Wilson's.

The knocking occurred again followed by a woman's voice calling, "Massage service."

With great reluctance, Wilson nodded. Despite how badly his heart and body ached for it this was not the right time to be doing this, to be broaching a new relationship, for either one of them. House nodded once, his eyes cooling off somewhat. He turned and limped to the door.

The only regret Wilson had was watching House move away from him, pulling his robe tightly about himself as he did. He got up and headed to the bathroom to take care of his wood.

**~H/W~**

Both House and Wilson lay naked on massage beds set up in the hotel suite as two extremely talented but professional masseuses worked their magic on their stiff, aching backs. The only thing covering them were two thin cotton sheets draped discreetly over their hips. Despite the sensuality of the massage and the fact that House was lying mere feet away from him in the buff, Wilson was relaxed everywhere; he supposed jerking off in the bathroom a few minutes before had something to do with that as well. He did his very best not to look at House and think about the encounter they had narrowly avoided.

In their twenty odd years of friendship there had always been flirtation between House and Wilson but never before had they come quite that close to actually going _there_ than they had earlier that morning. Wilson would never have, in a million years, believed that House could be turned on by another man like he had just been with him. The man wasn't as straight as he liked everyone to believe. That was more than interesting.

As for himself, Wilson had always known that he was slightly…curved? Bent? He closed his eyes and shook his head at himself. _Gay, James,_ he told himself. _The word is gay. It's time you just admitted it and embraced it._ Yeah, sure, he could do that—but would everybody else, too?

The masseuse managed to work out a particularly stubborn knot in his left deltoid and it felt so good he couldn't stop a moan from escaping him. He thought he heard House snicker.

"Okay, this might not be such a bad idea…" Wilson thought out loud.

"What do you think he meant by 'anything'?" House mused, obviously not on the same topic as Wilson.

Wilson, however, was still so absorbed by his concern for House's relapse and apparent attempts to deny that he was in any kind of grief for his broken relationship with Cuddy, that he didn't really comprehend the words he heard.

"…Take some time for yourself, relax…"

"I know that it's a figure of speech," House said, "but he really did seem to underline the _anything_." There was a slightly lustful lilt in the way he said that last word.

"…maybe…talk to someone…?" Wilson added hopefully.

"Already scheduled," House told him, finally on the same topic with him.

Wilson looked up, mildly surprised. Had he heard him right? "Really?"

House lifted his head to look back. "I'm not an idiot," House told him, "I know I need help."

For the first time since Cuddy had called Wilson to tell him about the break-up, Wilson saw a little light at the end of the tunnel. "Okay, that's great," he said amicably. It only took him half-a-second after that to realize that he and House might still not be completely on the same page. "I meant like a counselor."

House nodded. "I know."

Wilson clarified resignedly, feeling a touch of jealousy, "But you meant a hooker." _Didn't you?_

"Yeah," House agreed without hesitation, nodding and then added, "Baby steps." He dropped his face down into the head rest again.

Sighing in disappointment, Wilson dropped his head down as well and tried very hard not to picture House and some whore fucking. _At least a whore doesn't mean anything more to him than a lay,_ Wilson consoled himself. It could be worse, after all. House could have been talking about Cuddy. As much as Wilson wanted House to be happy, he didn't want that to mean that House and Cuddy had to reconcile for that to happen—even though he feared that's exactly what it would take.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Three

On the drive from the resort to Princeton-Plainsboro Wilson thought about House and Cuddy. After narrowly avoiding having sex with House right there in his hotel room (and half-wishing he'd told House to tell the masseuse's to go away) Wilson had realized that the only way House might be able to snap out of this spiral he was in was if he and Cuddy reconciled. Wilson abhorred the idea, was filled with jealousy and dread by it, but the fact was that House was in love with the Dean of Medicine, and Cuddy was in love with House (or, at least, she was as in love with House as she could be with anyone other than herself).

Wilson was in love with House, but knew that despite the lust House had shown for him, his feelings were not returned. Not that it made any difference to the kind of sacrifices Wilson was, and always had been, willing to make for his best friend's well-being. The only times that hadn't been true was when Wilson had been in his own fog of denial and couldn't see beyond the tip of his nose what it was doing to House. If bringing House and Cuddy back together would rescue House from addiction and self-destruction, he would bite the bullet and try to make that happen.

First thing upon arriving at the hospital, Wilson headed for Lisa Cuddy's office, having to pass through the busy clinic to get there. He saw the secretive looks he was receiving from hospital personnel as he passed them and heard the whispering among them but couldn't quite make out what they were saying—he didn't have to, though. He knew that word had gotten around that House and Cuddy had ended their relationship; now here was the 'bastard's' best friend come running to convince the poor put-upon woman holed up inside her office to take House back, to forgive him whatever horrible thing he must have done and to show mercy.

The worst thing about that was the fact that at least part of it was true, though the part about House committing some grievous act to end the relationship, in Wilson's opinion, wasn't.

He passed Cuddy's sputtering PA of the week, ignoring her protestations, and rapped loudly on the inner door. He could see through a space between the two slats in the blinds covering the glass walls of the office that Cuddy was alone in there, reading something off of her computer monitor before shutting it. She looked almost as miserable as House did (when he wasn't trying to convince Wilson that he was _fine_) and Wilson had to remind himself that she didn't really deserve his sympathy.

Not bothering to wait for an invitation to enter, Wilson opened the door and strode inside. He was angry and scared and damn it, she had some actions to answer to!

"Wilson!" she said in surprise before frowning. It was obvious that they both knew why he was there. "The least you could do is knock. What do you want? Let me guess—House isn't coming in to work again today. Well you can tell him that if he values his job—"

**"You knew he was an addict before you got involved!"** he said loudly, unable to hold back any longer and just shy of yelling at her. Wilson paced slightly in his agitation.

Cuddy recoiled slightly but stood her ground. **"I didn't end the relationship be—"** she began defensively but Wilson wouldn't allow her to finish.

**"You knew he was an ass—"** he shouted.

This time she raised her voice and attempted to cut him off, unsuccessfully. **"I didn't end it because—"**

**"You told him you didn't want him to change!"**

**"And I was wrong!"** Cuddy exclaimed, her voice breaking slightly; she slouched in her office chair and Wilson thought he could see moisture forming in her steel blue eyes. That sucker-part of him that both hated and was attracted to the sight of a woman on the verge of tears tried to take over and he battled it back. In spite of that, he lowered his voice and reduced the harshness a little.

**"You don't _know _that,"** he insisted, beginning to feel nauseous as he prepared to begin Operation: Reconciliation. Cuddy began to shake her head at him but Wilson pressed on, regardless. **"You…thought you were going to die—do you really think that was the right time to make this kind of decision?"**

Cuddy shook her head, eyes misting.** "No…but I thought about it—a lot!"** She blinked her tears away, regained some control over her emotions, and became unrepentant again. **"And I haven't changed my mind."**

Wilson noticed the reversal in attitude, the same 'I'm never wrong' spirit that both House and Cuddy shared in common. It was ironic that nearly all of the things they held in common were negative in nature. He disliked it in House and hated it in her. Still, he forced himself to remain calm for House's sake.

He sighed.** "_He_ thought you were going to die. _Nobody_ knows how to react in that situation." Wilson swallowed his pride and added a note of pleading to his words. "Just—give him another chance. He _deserves_ it."**

As far as Wilson was concerned, House deserved all the second chances he could get.

For a brief moment Cuddy's resolve appeared to falter, but she pulled it back together before it crumbled completely. **"I know."** She shook her head, possibly at her own desire to show mercy.** "But this isn't about what _he_ deserves…"**

_Of course not,_ Wilson thought bitterly. _Everything is always about you._

**"…When things go wrong I don't want to _hope_ that I'm not alone, I want to _know_ it!"** She paused briefly to collect her thoughts.** "I mean, House…every time I need him to step up—he's just never going to _be_ that! It's not his fault, it's who he is; I should have known it."**

_He _did_ step up for you!_ Wilson thought angrily. _But no man could have met your expectations! My god! He gave up his passion for his job, his time spent with me, his pride and self-esteem for you, you ungrateful bitch, but when not even that was enough he gave up his sobriety and risked his sanity to be there for you as well! You'd better _believe_ it's your fault and I will never let you forget it!_

Wisely, however, for the sake of both his job and House's, Wilson refrained from sharing his thoughts with her.

Cuddy's tone of voice changed suddenly, and she looked up at Wilson as if seeking absolution or pity, neither of which he was willing to grant her.** "This is my fault,"** she asserts, her eyes carefully sizing up Wilson's reaction.

Unable to stand the sight of her any longer, Wilson looked away and decided to employ a slightly different tactic. He turned and walked a couple of measured paces to the floor before stopping to glance back at her.

**"Well,"** he sighed, trying to sound his most worried and despondent—which unfortunately wasn't as much of a stretch as he would have liked,** "he's back on Vicodin, so you might want to keep an eye on his new patient."**

With that he left her office, not looking back. Wilson doubted that Cuddy was capable of feeling genuine shame or guilt; few true narcissists were.

**~H/W~**

He toyed with the lone cherry tomato in the sea of iceberg lettuce and red cabbage on his plate; this was supposed to be a salad? According to the hospital cafeteria workers it was. Even dousing it in low-fat Italian dressing did nothing to spice it up or make it more appetizing. Giving up on it, Wilson pushed the Styrofoam plate aside and sipped his ginger tea instead. He hadn't had much of an appetite since Sam left and now, with House having relapsed and currently on a bender, he barely felt hungry at all anymore.

_Oh, well,_ he thought despondently, _at least I'll lose my love handles._ It didn't really matter whether he did or didn't, though. It wasn't like he had anyone who would wrap her—or his—arms around his waist and appreciate a trimmer waistline.

For a moment he allowed himself to fantasize about House crashing into his office like he used to Before Cuddy, but instead of plopping onto the sofa or into one of the visitor chairs in front of his desk, House walks around behind the desk to stand beside Wilson's chair.

_He stares down at Wilson with those blue eyes flickering like the hottest part of a flame, hungry for him. Wilson turns in his office chair to face him, growing hard just at the sight and scent of him. House tells him to stand up and when Wilson does House grabs his belted waistline until his body is flush with his older friend's. Where they make contact they burn with a heat that begins to melt away any protests or inhibitions Wilson may have._

_House sets his cane down on the surface of the desk and then cups Wilson's cheek with that hand and mesmerizes him with pure animal magnetism. He searches Wilson's face as if mapping every square millimetre of it and storing it to permanent memory somewhere in that incredible mind. Wilson feels like his knees are turning to jelly as he stares first at his best friend's mouth and then deeply into his eyes._

_House begins to lean down and in towards him. Wilson moves ever so slowly to meet him. He can feel House's warm, moist breath against his face when he speaks._

"_Tell me you don't want this, Jimmy." His voice is a deep growl that sends shivers through Wilson's body. _

"_I don't want this," Wilson protests in a murmur with absolutely no conviction at all. They continue to close the distance between their mouths at an achingly slow pace._

_A smirk tugs at House's lips. "Tell me to go away and never come back."_

"_Go away," is the whispered response, even as two well manicured hands come to rest on House's hips._

"_Tell me to stop," House's lips are a quarter of an inch away from brushing his; Wilson can feel the warmth of the other man's skin radiating onto his. He begins to tremble in anticipation. This is what he's been yearning after for so very long and now…_

"Wilson?"

Just when House's lips should make contact with his the entire fantasy dissipates like a puff of smoke, and is gone. Wilson jerks his head to look at the source of the address. Standing beside his booth are Chase, Foreman and Taub, all three carrying lunch trays. Chase, who was the addresser, is smiling peculiarly at him.

"Hm? What? Oh…hi."

"By that goofy smile and far-off look in your eyes," the Australian doctor said to him, "that must have been one hell of a good daydream. So tell me, who is she—anybody I know?"

Realizing that House's team members must have been there longer than he'd thought, Wilson flushed self-consciously and shook his head. "Oh, no, it wasn't—it wasn't about that sort of thing…just mentally going over a treatment plan for a patient of mine."

Not one of the three men standing there looked like they bought that story but didn't push the matter either.

"May we join you?" Foreman asked. Wilson looked around the cafeteria very briefly and saw that there were a number of empty tables that would seat three or four diners. Since House's minions almost never joined him for lunch (even when their boss wasn't with him), he was suspicious of their intentions.

"Sure," he told them cautiously with a nod. Chase and Foreman sat down across the table from Wilson and Taub took the seat next to his. "So to what do I owe this honor?"

"We think you know," Taub answered smoothly, his voice swooping slightly. "We want the scoop on House and what's going on. We have a patient dying and nothing we do is bringing us any closer to a diagnosis and House is off somewhere having a bath with some giggly woman I'm assuming is being paid to be there."

"How do you know that?" Wilson asked, curious.

"We called him, had him on speakerphone. We heard the water, a strange sucking noise, and then a feminine giggle while trying to carry on a differential with him." Foreman explained drily. "What I want to know is, has he completely relapsed and if he has, is it affecting his judgment and is there any hope he'll show up for work before our patient dies?"

"This is the bull rider you're treating?"

Chase nodded, "Yeah, but we can't really treat him until we've figured out what's wrong. We've hit another dead end and would like House's opinion without having to listen to him have sex while on the phone with us."

Wilson made a face at that. "Where's Masters?"

"Shh!" Taub hissed, lowering his voice even more than before. "Be careful. If you say her name three times she'll appear and there will be no controlling her."

"Everything will go straight to Cuddy," Chase said, chuckling at Taub. "We figured House wouldn't appreciate that. Seriously though, we do have a patient that needs his attention _and_…we're a little concerned. He worked his ass off for over a year to stay sober. Did he really relapse because of his break-up with Cuddy?"

It wasn't that Wilson didn't like gossip; he just didn't want to gossip about House. However, the look a concern they had convinced him that this wasn't just a plot to get dirt on their boss.

"Well, you don't have to worry about Cuddy—she already knows," Wilson told them, keeping his voice low. He sighed. "Yes, he's relapsed, taking enough Vicodin per day to kill your average adult male and mixing it with champagne, scotch and _room service._ I don't know where he's getting the scripts for the Vicodin. It's not one of you guys, is it?"

All three firmly denied being House's source.

"Well, it's not me, either," Wilson told them. "As for his judgment…personally, it's crappy, but professionally…I can't tell you for certain, but I know from past experience that he went a long time on the Vicodin without it affecting his medical decisions."

"Yeah, up until he started to hallucinate and his subconscious tried to murder Chase at his bachelor party," Taub responded pointedly.

Wilson didn't need to be reminded. That had been one of the darkest periods of House's life—and his, too.

"I already told you," Chase spoke up, glaring at Taub, "I don't think he was trying to kill me. Think about it—I was at a bachelor party being attended mostly by doctors including all of you plus Thirteen and other hospital staff, all ready and able to offer me immediate medical assistance and keep me alive until I reached the hospital. You can't tell me that even mad as a hatter, House didn't think of that himself. I think his subconscious was trying to make me sick enough that I wouldn't be able to marry Allison the next day but not sick enough to kill me."

"Right," Taub argued. "He was jealous."

"No," Chase said, shaking his head. "I think he was trying to keep me from making a huge mistake, and thanks to you guys and the efficient, competent jobs you did, I ended up making it anyway."

Wilson couldn't help but smile slightly. He hadn't thought about it that way, but now that Chase explained his theory, he wasn't certain the young intensivist was mistaken about that. It would be just like House to try to help someone by hurting them.

"Look," Wilson said, bring the conversation back on topic, "I'm doing my best to get through to him but if you can't make Mohammed come to the mountain, then you'll just have to take the mountain to him."

"Uh-oh," Taub said, his eyes suddenly glued to the cafeteria entrance. "Here comes trouble."

Wilson and the other two with him turned to take a quick look. Masters had just entered the cafeteria, looking around until she spotted them and was now headed their way.

"If you say her name another three times, will it make her disappear again?" Wilson asked, sotto voce. Chase laughed, Taub chuckled, and Foreman smirked and rolled his eyes.

Standing up to leave just as Masters arrived at the table, Wilson excused himself, gave her a friendly but phony smile, and left them. He dumped his trash on his way back to his department.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Four

It was four-thirty in the afternoon and Wilson was just finishing some of his paperwork. He had no further appointments that day, and had completed his rounds already. He thought about calling it a day and leaving work a little early but then remembered that Cuddy had made it Wilson's responsibility to make certain House's clinic hours for the week were covered, and since he knew there was no way in hell that House would be working those hours himself, it fell upon _him_ to work them for his best friend—that, or they both faced double their normally allotted hours next week.

Cuddy could be quite vindictive when she wanted to be—which, for the past couple of years, seemed to be perpetually. He thought about that as he made his way down to the clinic. Her personality had begun to really change shortly before her daughter Rachel was born and Cuddy had taken custody of her. Wilson had learned from House that the Dean had been trying unsuccessfully for quite some time to conceive in vitro and had been taking fertility drugs through shots House had been giving her. Wilson remembered worrying that House was the sperm donor and simply not admitting to it; if he had been that would have created a bond between Cuddy and him that would last any potential child's lifetime and beyond through his or her prodigy. He'd been relieved to learn that Cuddy had received sperm from anonymous donors instead. Unfortunately, Cuddy had had at least one miscarriage that he knew of and possibly more than just the one. She had given up trying to get pregnant and instead tried to adopt a child only to see that adoption fall through. She had been bitterly disappointed and that was when House, having gone to Cuddy's place to apologize and to cheer her up, had ended up kissing her and then running.

It had been obvious to Wilson then that there was more than just sexual chemistry between the Dean and her Head of Diagnostic Medicine. It had sickened Wilson to know that, but since he hadn't been ready to come clean about his feelings for House with himself, he certainly wasn't going to stand in the way of what should have been House's ticket to happiness and stability. Two years later had proven that not to be the case. It was as if Cuddy's maternal instincts had cut in but her sense of humor and personality had suffered as a result. This transformation seemed to have stalled when she first gained custody of Rachel and after House had had his breakdown and had voluntarily checked himself into Mayfield for detox, rehabilitation and therapy.

As soon as House had been discharged and had moved in with Wilson, however, Cuddy's personality change had begun again at an accelerated rate from before. She'd flirted with House, getting his hopes up only to dash them by allowing him to accidentally find out that she was in a relationship with Lucas Douglas. She had become colder and more resentful of House as the months past and her relationship with Lucas became more serious.

Wilson had wondered if her anger at House's early attempts to break her and Lucas up had been more of an act or diversion than reality and that her true anger had kicked in when House had stopped, apparently willing to let go of his hopes for a relationship with her. As a narcissist, being ignored or dismissed would have been a huge slap in the face to Cuddy's ego, so her mood swings and conflicting behaviors around House only became worse and more frequent, further confusing House and torturing him. This all had culminated in Cuddy tearing a strip off of House at the crane disaster site only to show up at his place a few hours later announcing that she had left her fiancé for House because she loved him just the way he was—which she had just admitted this week had been a lie.

Cuddy seemed just as incapable as both he and House to maintain healthy romantic relationship; he wondered if, in Cuddy's case, she was more excited by being pursued than the relationship itself—once she was 'caught', did she quickly become dissatisfied, restless—perhaps even bored?

Even after she had begun her relationship with House she was still demanding, controlling, and uncompromising with House, slowly breaking him to fit the mold she had claimed not to have waiting for him. Of course, House had proven he could not meet her ridiculous expectations and voila—they found themselves where they were now. She was unrecognizable from the Cuddy Wilson had been hired by and had become friends with all those years ago.

In the mean time, Wilson had made his blunders and cruel decisions which proved to hurt and confuse House, too—most of those had been to his denial of who he was and how he really felt about his extraordinary friend and partner in crime. Now that he was on the cusp of being honest with both House and himself, was it too late? Had Cuddy hurt House so badly that he would never be able to trust another person enough to fall in love again—to fall in love with _him_?

Wilson hoped not, that's why he couldn't give up on House now. He had to see this through, and somehow help pull House out of this vortex of pain and self-destruction before it really was too late to save him.

The question was, how?

He was walking across the staff parking lot to his car when his phone rang out House's ringtone. Wilson quickly answered it. "Hey, what's up? You okay?"

There was a pause, but Wilson could hear heavy, shaky breathing and what sounded like a sniff. He frowned, becoming nervous. "House? Are you there? Talk to me." He threw his briefcase into the back seat of his car and then jumped into the driver's seat, quickly buckling his seat belt. "_House?_"

"Yeah," came the quiet, hoarse reply. "Ditch the bald kiddies early, will you? Meet me for dinner."

Wilson didn't hesitate. "You bet. I'll be there by what?—seven-thirty?"

"Yeah, good. Come up to my suite first."

"House, are you certain you're okay?" Wilson asked him. His friend did not sound good at all; he suspected House had been crying, something House almost never did—Wilson had only see him break down and really cry once, after the infarction, after Stacy had left. He had shed a tear during the DBS when he'd remembered what had really happened to Amber and realized that she couldn't be saved—but he hadn't actually cried. Perhaps he should go to the hotel immediately, Wilson decided. "Look, I'm leaving early—I'm coming right over, okay?"

"Okay," House agreed and then cleared his throat before hanging up.

Wilson stared at the phone for a second, feeling shaken. He put his cell phone down, started the car, and sped out of the hospital parking lot.

At the hotel he headed straight to House's suite and was immediately welcomed in after the first knock. Obviously House had been waiting for him. Wilson's breath caught when he saw his friend; he wore a pressed, silk button down in gunmetal blue with a lighter blue "T" underneath and dark-washed denims that looked new and fit him perfectly, with his Nikes sticking out underneath the cuff. His hair was freshly washed and fingered neatly and his scruff trimmed to a neat three-day's growth instead of five. He had put on cologne and looked absolutely breathtakingly handsome.

Forcing himself to stop staring like a crushing schoolgirl, Wilson cleared his throat and walked past him into the room.

"It's early for dinner," Wilson told him. It was just coming onto five o'clock.

"Skipping out early from work?" House said, shutting the door. "I approve. Hope _she_ didn't see you on your way out."

"_She_," Wilson echoed, "was busy schmoozing with a potential donor so _she_ was too busy to notice. Besides, with all the overtime I put in she owes me."

"Cuddy doesn't owe anybody anything," House said bitterly, limping over to the small refrigerator and opened it to expose a well stocked mini-bar. "Drink?"

"Sounds good…do you have beer?"

"Budweiser, Corona or Guinness?"

"Guinness," Wilson replied. House pulled out a bottle and lobbed it to Wilson before grabbing the same for himself. They sat down at opposite ends of the sofa. House clicked on the TV out of habit, but the volume was down very low. Wilson took a swallow of his beer, not knowing what else to do with the uncomfortable silence between them. House furtively glanced at him from time to time but otherwise pretended that he was watching the cooking show that was currently on.

Wilson knew he would have to start the discussion if he was going to find out what had prompted House's disturbing call earlier. He knew this would be difficult as it always was when trying to get House to talk about what was going on inside his mind and heart; it was harder than trying to extract teeth with an eyebrow tweezer.

"So…you're alone. Carnell's day off?"

House smirked. "Sent her home before I called you. Don't like dividing up my Jimmy-time."

Wilson flushed slightly at the unusual comment. House had said it with conviction, which only made it all the more strange.

"When you opened the door I thought you were expecting someone else," Wilson told him. "You're looking good. Good colors on you."

"Why Wilson," House said with a devious gleam in his eye, "You're not hitting on me, are you? "

_Do you want me too?_ "Hit you, maybe. Hitting _on_ you? Sorry, I'm not that desperate."

There was a flash of something across House's face that lasted only a fraction of a second before it disappeared but it was enough to cause Wilson to regret his last comment, even if it had been said in jest.

"House, I—"

"Forget it," was the response that cut him off. "You're no grand prize either."

"Well, now that we've established that neither one of us is each other's dream, you can tell me what was really going on when you called me," Wilson said, relaxing a little at House's attempt at forgiveness and brushing off the slur.

"Can't a guy call his bestest bud over for a beer and grub without there being an ulterior motive?" his friend asked, indignant. Wilson saw through the diversion, and they both knew it. House sighed, took a long pull off his beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and sighed. "You're not the only one with bad dreams, you know."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Do I ever?"

Wilson eyed him carefully for a moment. "Not usually," he admitted, squinting slightly, "but lately you're behavior has been unpredictable and I can't help but think you want to talk to me but something is holding you back."

"I don't want to talk about the break-up, or Cuddy, or my Vicodin use," House said with a nod, his eyes returning to the TV screen. "I thought having dinner together would be like old times." House paused a moment, conflict waging in his eyes before he slowly added. "I've been a rotten friend. I was pissed at you for a long time for ousting me out of the loft in favor of the bitch that broke your heart—_again_. I was so busy trying to predict what it was Cuddy expected of me next that I used it as an excuse to cut you out of my time and focus on her. It was a mistake."

Wilson listened carefully. The acknowledgement and backhanded contrition were rare and appreciated. He'd already figured most of this out but it was good to hear House actually talk about something that was going on with him below the surface, no matter what the topic was. It was a start.

"Yeah, well, I made a mistake too," Wilson told him softly, trying to capture his gaze. "I should have listened to you when you told me that seeing her again was a mistake. So go ahead, tell me you told me so—I deserve it. I'm not in the running for Friend of the Year for kicking you out of the loft like that, especially since you weren't ready to be on your own. Admit it—that's why you were so desperate to keep Cuddy and make her happy when she was obviously making your life miserable. You needed to be with somebody to feel secure in the fact that you weren't all alone."

House said nothing to that for a long while, staring into his half-full bottle.

"You needed to know that you weren't alone either," House finally acknowledged. "So I guess it's safe to say that we're both pricks, then?"

"Guess so," Wilson agreed. He lifted his bottle in a toast. "To pricks and scoundrels!"

House smiled at that, raising his bottle to clink against Wilson's. "Here, here."

They sat in a silence that was much less strained for several minutes, both watching a pleasantly plump but pretty woman preparing a Tuscan dish on the tube. Wilson took another pull of his bottle and snuck sidelong glances at House. One of them ended up occurring at the same time House glanced at him in similar fashion. Their eyes locked and they just stared at each other. Wilson had no idea how long they sat like that, only that he felt breathless again, and didn't want it to end in anything other than with his lips caressing House's and House's caressing back. He barely noticed that the distance between them had been closed by a couple of inches, and that the pull had been mutual.

Wilson felt himself being drawn in to House's eyes, wanting to surrender himself to his friend completely.

"You're too important to me…to lose," Wilson told him earnestly. "That's why I think that it's so important for you to open up to me, admit to me that losing Cuddy has been too much for you. And if you can't then find someone you can talk to, and I don't mean a prostitute—someone with a degree that _isn't_ in fellatio."

"Damn, Wilson! I told you I wasn't going to talk about that. Do you have to rain on every parade?" House was trying a little levity, but the frustration thinly veiled behind it wasn't lost on Wilson. "I…Wilson, it's not that Cuddy…I'm not here because of that. It's…more than that, something deeper."

"What?" Wilson asked, desperately wanting to know.

House looked down at the last dregs of beer left in his bottle, but apparently had no desire to finish it since he set it aside. "You've got to trust me. I know you think I'm spinning out of control, but I know what I'm doing. I don't need you to worry about me and fret over me. I need you to be here—just…_be_ here. You don't have to do anything—there's nothing you can do. Just knowing you're in my corner…I'm fine and I'll be even better, but you need to accept that I can't tell you everything I'm thinking and feeling and leave it be."

Wilson shook his head and spoke quietly. "I don't know if I can just sit back and watch you self-destruct again. I enabled you for far too long in the past and you ended up in a psychiatric hospital!"

"I know,' House acknowledged, then sighed, looking down at his hands. "But you have to let me deal with this is my own way. Don't badger me. I need you to believe in me."

"I do!" Wilson insisted but House was already shaking his head.

"No you don't. But more than anything else I need you to start, now."

Wilson stared at him long and hard. "House, when you called me about dinner, the sound of your voice…how do I know that when I leave here to go home you won't head up to your room and intentionally take an overdose? Your relationship with Cuddy meant so much to you—"

"Damn it!" House exploded, kicking the coffee table with his left foot and nearly turning it over. That earned him a startled look. He lowered his voice again. "My relationship with Cuddy only mattered to me because it was all I had to hang on to. I'm upset it's over because it meant I failed at yet another attempt to be normal, to be happy…I would have been happy—was as close to happy as I've ever been while living…with you, sans Harpy."

Wilson stared at him, considering what to say next when the overpowering urge to kiss House drove him to his feet and toward the closed balcony door. He turned his back to House, trying hard to control his breathing. He had to do something to change the direction of their conversation before he gave in to his desire and made a huge mistake.

"Does the restaurant downstairs require reservations?" Wilson asked, sounding strangled.

"I already made them for six o'clock." House answered flatly.

Wilson turned back to look at him. "It must almost be that now. We should head down."

House nodded, sighed. He grabbed his cane and stood up slowly, rubbing his thigh after he did. He pulled his Vicodin bottle out of his pocket and took two, swallowing them down with the last bit of his warm beer, then pocketed the vial again and grabbed his wallet. Wilson headed to the door and passed through it into the corridor first, followed by House with the key card. Hopefully the change of venue would lighten their mood and they would have a decent meal without any more drama.

**~H/W~**

The next day meant another visit to the hotel to see House and try to convince him to come back to work and help his team with the diagnosis of their patient, who was getting sicker by the minute. Their dinner the night before had been tense but at least they hadn't argued. Wilson had gone home feeling just as worried as ever, though he was beginning to fit pieces of the puzzle together. It would have been a whole lot easier if House would just open up and come clean, but it was becoming increasingly apparent that he wasn't going to.

He'd waited until his lunch break to make the trip so as not to piss off Cuddy with his absence. She was heard around the hospital grumbling about department heads too busy partying at luxury resorts to do their jobs and knew that she was on the war path, looking for any excuse to let loose on him for his scathing appraisal of how she'd mistreated House in their relationship the other day. On his way to the elevator from his office Wilson crossed paths with House's team on their way to the DDx room. They were joking and griping amongst themselves about their boss holding a differential while naked in bed with a gorgeous blonde prostitute named Onka. Master was being teased mercilessly for the way she had reacted to something House had said to her, something very suggestive in nature though exactly what that was, Wilson hadn't deduced from their conversation.

Feeling sick that House was with yet another whore, Wilson nevertheless was determined to keep an eye on him whether the diagnostician liked it or not. He couldn't bear the thought of House hurting so badly that he had to try to bury his pain like he was.

When the hotel elevator deposited Wilson on the fifth floor, he stepped off only to hear the shouting and desperate pleading of a familiar male voice coming from the direction of House's room. There was no doubt in his mind that this had something to do with his friend and began to jog to House's suite. As he approached he could tell that the voice did indeed come from inside House's suite and it belonged to Carnell. Sticking out of the closed door was the head of an arrow that had been shot through it.

_Oh fuck!_ Wilson silently cried. House had a lethal weapon, which nearly caused Wilson to faint from fear.

"_No! Please no!"_ Carnell screamed, his voice slightly muffled as it passed through the door. Following this came the cry of a woman. Wilson's heart seizes in his chest. _"Oh, God!"_

"_Oops," _House said, his voice lower in volume and harder for Wilson to hear. _"Gotta go!"_

"_Call an ambulance!" _Carnell cried. There was the sound of a body finally dropping to the floor inside.

"_Why?"_

"_What do you mean, why? She's hurt!"_

"_She doesn't look hurt,"_ House responded calmly. There was the sound of shuffling, then the woman could be heard giggling. Wilson felt his heart start to beat again, shaking his head. It had been one of House's insane pranks at Carnell's expense; usually it was at _his_.

"_No you didn't!"_ Carnell exclaimed incredulously, his voice still quavering from the adrenalin rush dropping following the reveal of the prank.

"_Yes we did!"_ House and the woman said in unison and she continued her giggling.

"_You're an ass!"_ Carnell told House, as so many before him had done.

Wilson had heard enough. He tried the door knob just as Carnell turned it from inside the room. The door opened and Wilson stepped in, unwelcomed. House was putting aside an expensive looking bow with his back to the door, thus he hadn't noticed yet that Wilson was there.

"'Kay, go get me General Patton's Colt .45—the one with the two notches," House commanded his hospital minion.

Wilson pressed his lips together in consternation before cutting into the conversation. "He's not getting you a gun!" The idea of a depressed House with a gun in his possession was madness.

House turned around in surprise and faced Wilson. The smile on his face faded, perhaps because he saw the concerned frown on his friend's. Their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills.

Carnell stepped around Wilson on his way out the door; as he did he patted the doctor's shoulder in a friendly manner, saying, "Your friend knows how to have a _good_ time!" He shut the door behind him.

"Tammi," House said over his shoulder to the prostitute, a pretty Asian woman, without looking away from Wilson, "you can get dressed and go now. The evening shift has arrived."


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Five

They sat at the bar in the hotel lounge drinking scotch. Wilson was still shaking slightly from walking in on House ordering a gun. Cuddy or no Cuddy, he hadn't been able to return to work and had called Sandy to cover the bases for him, again. Wilson knew that House didn't want to be sitting there, waiting for an interrogation and a lecture but Wilson desperately needed to get through to him before he really did get a hold of a gun and in a moment of drug-fueled depression ended up killing himself.

"**You were bored**," Wilson told his friend, nursing his drink. "**You must have spent about two days setting up a big murder and you were bored.**"

"**I am fine,**" House stressed for the umpteenth time, lifting his glass to his mouth and taking a swallow of the liquor in it.

"**You're not,**" Wilson insisted, exasperated, "**and I'm worried that you'll do something even stupider!**" He paused a moment, summoning the courage for what he was about to say next. "**Why don't you move back in with me, at least until you get back on track.**"_ Please, House! Come back—I need to know that you're safe!_

House's reaction was immediate and hostile. He looked at Wilson with disgust. "**What an ego! You think you're some kind of emotional paragon? You're my _rock_?"**

Wilson wasn't surprised by House's mockery, but it still hurt him and he had to look away. "I'**m trying to be a friend.**"

House didn't seem to notice that he'd offended Wilson; if he had, then he certainly didn't care. "**At least I have the good sense not to marry every woman I fall in bed with. Maybe _you_ should move in with _me!_**"

Wilson looked up at him, "**Either way, if you prefer…?**"

Cutting him off, House irritably told him, "**I prefer you stop talking about this.**"

For Wilson, that was not up for negotiation. "**House, we haven't even _started_ talking about this except to establish the fact that you're 'fine' which clearly you aren't-!**"

"**Leave me alone!**" House yelled suddenly, causing Wilson to jump slightly on his barstool. There was so much pain evident in his eyes that truly were windows to House's soul—that is, if you managed to catch him with his guard down. He could close himself off, put up a wall and moat, and his eyes would turn steely cold and unfathomable if he knew he was being observed or the possibility was there that he could be. Around Wilson House wasn't quite as capable of hiding his emotions like he was around anyone else.

Wilson wanted to pull him into his arms and hold him until the pain went away but he couldn't, House wouldn't allow it. After being betrayed by Cuddy the way he had been, Wilson doubted House would ever be able to fully trust another person completely (including him) again.

"**No,**" he told his friend firmly but calmly. "**We're going to talk about this, and we're going to deal with this!**"

House didn't respond right away, but angry and frightened eyes stared back at Wilson as the gears in his head spun away. "**So I have no choice?**"

Shaking his head slightly, Wilson forced himself to keep looking House in the eye. It was incredibly hard for him to stand firm against his older friend. That was one reason why Wilson had ended up enabling House's addiction for so many years before Mayfield; all Wilson wanted was for House to be happy, to be pain-free, and to want to live.

"**Fine,**" House said, sounding defeated, but that didn't last for long. "**Oh, unless…unless—yes!**" He rose from his barstool, grabbing his cane. "**I do! I _do_ have legs!**" He leaned in with a sneer. "**I guess you didn't factor those in your brilliant plan!**"

With that, House limped off toward the exit without looking back, anger radiating off of him like ripples of heat off of desert sand.

Wilson sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He was beginning to lose hope. A tension headache threatened as he rose from the bar, threw enough money down to cover the tab and a tip, and then dragged himself to his car.

**~H/W~**

Wilson stopped at Cuddy's on his way home…okay, Cuddy's home was in the opposite direction from the hotel as his loft, so he had gone out of his way to get there. In the car he'd been at war with himself. It had become painfully clear that House no longer trusted Wilson the way he had even five years ago. Something had happened between them when it had appeared they had weathered the many storms of their friendship, something that had created a chasm that was greater than Wilson ever could have imagined. He knew it was his fault. Putting House out of the loft and taking up with Sam had done more permanent damage than he'd thought, and he only had himself to blame.

He couldn't get through to House. The only one who had a chance any more was the woman House had loved and lost. It broke Wilson's heart to know that Cuddy was really House's only hope. He had to make one last ditch attempt to convince her to help House. Then he would go home, curl up in a ball in bed and cry himself to sleep like a child.

He walked up to her front door in the rain with his head hanging low, not bothering with his umbrella. He took a deep breath and rang the doorbell. He heard footsteps coming toward the door and then it opened slowly. Cuddy stood there in her lounging clothes, looking tired and depressed. She appeared as lost as Wilson felt. Was it possible she was missing House as much as House missed her?

She didn't say anything or ask him to come in out of the rain, but she did listen to his appeal.

"**You're going to have to talk to him eventually,**" Wilson beseeched. "**He needs you.**"

Cuddy somberly regarded him. "I** love him, and I know he loves me, but I just can't—**"

"**He _needs_ you in his life,**" Wilson pressed, unwilling to accept her excuses. "**Even if you're not sleeping with him he needs you. Without you—**"

"**You can't go backwards!**" Cuddy insisted in frustration, cutting him off. "**I can't fix his problem!**" Her voice lowered and her eyes teared slightly. "**I _am_ his problem.**"

Wilson can't bring himself to say anything more. She is as unrelenting as House. He nodded once in defeat. Somehow he made it back to his car and drove home but he wasn't certain how. He'd shut down couldn't remember driving home once he got there.

Wilson dragged himself to his bedroom, stripped down to his boxers, and crawled into bed. It took him a long time to stop sobbing silently into his pillow and fall asleep.

**~H/W~**

_The doorbell wakes him. Wilson checks the clock next to his bed; it reads 3:34 a.m. Wilson groans at the intrusion. It was the first night he was able to sleep soundly in a very long time and some idiot had to come in the wee hours of the morning…._

_His blood runs cold. There's only one person who would come at this ungodly hour. Instinctively Wilson gets the feeling that something is very, very wrong. He practically jumps out of bed and grabs his robe, wrapping it around himself as he hurries through the loft to get to the door._

_When he opens it, he is faced by Cuddy. She has tears running down her face from two very red and swollen eyes._

"_House?" Wilson asks, unable to force anything else past his heart in his throat._

_She nods. "H-he killed himself. H-he had a gun, shot himself in the h—"_

"_Noooo!" Wilson screams, spinning away from the door, staggering a few feet before his legs give out, and collapsing to a boneless, weeping pile. "No…no, I told Carnell no gun! Oh my god…House…!"_

"House, no!" Wilson shouted, sitting bolt upright in his bed, trembling from head to toe. He was nearly hyperventilating, his t-shirt, boxers and bedding soaked with the sweat of terror. It took him a moment or two to realize that he wasn't on the floor of his foyer with Cuddy hovering over him, but rather in his bed, in the dark, and what has seemed so real had only been a nightmare. He managed to slow his breathing and his heart stopped slamming against his ribs at two hundred beats a minute. He relaxed his hands, which had been in tight fists.

House hadn't killed himself.

Wilson rubbed his face with his hands and found it was wet with more than just perspiration. He glanced at his clock. There were only seven minutes left before the alarm was supposed to go off to wake him, anyway. He turned off the alarm and slowly got out of bed. He would have to change and wash bedding when he got home from work, he told himself with a sigh. He peeled off his clothing, which clung to him like a second skin, and dropped the wet, smelly things into the laundry hamper on his way to the bathroom.

That had been his fourth nightmare in two days. Each and every one of them had been about House killing himself in some truly violent, agonizing way.

He started the shower, running the water steaming hot, as hot as he could tolerate it before it began to scald. Usually he did shower in water that hot but this morning he needed something to shock him completely awake and drive the images of a certain bleeding, dying diagnostician out of his thoughts.

There was no question that he was going to stop by the hotel on his way to the hospital. Wilson needed to see with his own eyes that his best friend was still alive and breathing and completely pissed off that he was being awakened two or three hours earlier than usual. He left the loft without eating again; Wilson was in his car about to put the key in the ignition when he remembered he'd left his briefcase upstairs in the loft. Cursing lightly, he went back up to the top floor of the condo complex, retrieved his briefcase from where it sat waiting next to the front door, and then nearly ran down the ten flights of stairs to the parking garage.

Arriving at the hotel in record time, Wilson wasted no time getting to House's suite and rapped hard on the door. He had expected to have to bang on the door several times before House would drag his fifty-one year old carcass out of bed and limp to the door complaining the entire way, so when the door opened almost immediately to show House standing there in his robe, Wilson was surprised.

House turned his body and said to someone else in the room, "Make that three breakfasts." He stepped back from the door to allow Wilson in. Stepping inside, Wilson looked around and was surprised to see that the room was in disarray; champagne and liquor bottles, most empty, some half full, sat around the room on pretty much any flat surface there was, as did highball glasses and champagne flutes, clothing, towels, the bow and arrow set and…was that? It was! It was a hurdy-gurdy! Wilson was afraid to ask what the hell that was doing there.

"Decided to give maid service the day off?" Wilson asked as his greeting, turning to look at House. _Or two, or three…?_

The oddest expression, one Wilson couldn't figure out, was on House's face. He had turned just in time to see House's eyes scanning him from head to toe but stopped and quickly glanced away when he realized Wilson was watching _him_

"After they heard about the arrow prank they refused to service the room," House answered with a shrug.

"And that surprises you?" Wilson asked, repressing an amused smile.

"Not really," was the nonchalant reply and shrug. "Look, uh, last night—"

"Was last night," Wilson finished for him, recognizing House's code for 'I'm sorry' and returning it with his for 'Forget about it'. His eyes were drawn to movement coming from the direction of the bathroom. Another lovely young woman emerged from there wearing a hotel robe as well, her hair up in a fluffy white towel twisted into a turban. Where on earth was Carnell finding all of these supermodel whores from?

House's face and body seemed to relax and a smile even tugged at the corners of his mouth. Wilson never ceased to be amazed at how incredibly good House looked in the mornings, even before he showered, dressed or ran his fingers through his wavy salt and pepper hair (Wilson didn't know if House even owned a comb or hairbrush). In that robe, with the smattering of hair on his chest exposed again…

_Not again,_ Wilson told himself and his body, particularly those parts below the belt. _Settle down!_ But, honestly, how could he help it when House pranced around naked under that very loosely tied robe looking so incredibly hot! Wilson wanted to close the distance between them right then and there, tear that robe off of House and drink in the sight of him before pulling him close and covering that tempting mouth, claiming it as his own…

"Take a picture, it lasts longer," House told him, bringing Wilson out of the thoughts in which he'd been losing himself. There was a twinkle in his blues and a definite smirk twisting his lips.

"What?" Wilson responded, pretending that he didn't know what his friend was talking about. "I had an interesting dream last night."

"Who topped, me or you?" House quipped flirtatiously, as he often did with Wilson.

"No," Wilson responded quickly, blushing and not skipping a beat, "that would be in _your_ dreams."

"How'd you know?"

Wilson stared at him for a moment too long, trying to figure out if House was teasing or being serious. With him there were times when even Wilson couldn't tell; this was one of those.

"It was a nightmare, actually," Wilson continued, not allowing House to throw him off. "In it I was awakened in the middle of the night by Cuddy—"

"_She_ topped?"

"No!" Wilson snapped, exasperated. "Nobody topped, it wasn't that kind of dream."

"But I thought you said it was a nightmare?" House was grinning now, apparently getting quite the kick out of aggravating him.

As good as it was to see House in a good mood, Wilson wished he would quit interrupting and allow him to finish. He tried to hide a smile of his own but couldn't manage it. "Shut up and listen. I dreamt that she came to tell me that you had…shot yourself…in the head with that gun you told Carnell to bring you."

"I'm not dead if I'm here talking with you right now," House told him quietly, "unless…well, maybe if I were a zombie? Naw, if that were the case I would have cancelled breakfast and just eaten your brains instead. Nope, I must be alive, then."

"Glad you find this so amusing." Wilson dropped wearily into an overstuffed armchair.

House sat down on the sofa opposite him. "You need to quit obsessing over this…over me. I told you, I'm fine. I'm…enjoying my freedom now that I'm out from underneath Cuddy's thumb. I was getting sick of having to behave myself all the time. Quite frankly it was incredibly boring. Let me get this out of my system and then I'll get back to normal."

"Normal normal," Wilson asked doubtfully, "or normal on Vicodin normal?"

"For me, Vicodin _is_ normal," House responded, looking away. "I tried without it, and botched the hell out of it. I am who I am…I couldn't change for Cuddy, what the hell makes you think I could change for you?"

"You slipped," Wilson argued, pained to see how little House believed in himself. Before dating Cuddy, House had seemed to be accepting himself more; now he seemed convinced that since Cuddy rejected him, he must be nothing but a failure. "It happens, especially so soon after rehab. Sometimes it takes a number of rounds of rehab…you know this. I don't want you to change who you are, House. I like who you are. Vicodin is _not _who you are, it's what you use to control the pain, but it hurts you more than it helps. _It_ changes who you are, and not for the better."

"I can't go through the hell of detox again," he whispered to Wilson, genuine fear in his eyes. "You have no idea…"

It was true, Wilson didn't. When House had been going through the agony of kicking Wilson had been told by hospital staff and Dr. Nolan that he couldn't be there with House, to go through the worst of it with him. He'd argued until he was blue in the face but Nolan had been adamant about it, not willing to budge an inch. Wilson had pictured House in a sunny hospital room, on an IV drip and NSAIDs to help dull the pain of the headaches and various myalgias he would suffer during opiate withdrawal; he had been certain that House would have received the best of care to make the experience for him as tolerable as possible. After all, the man had been through enough suffering in his life, right?

A few months after House had been discharged from Mayfield and had moved in with Wilson he had told Wilson what detox had really been like. It had made him so sick to hear about that he'd literally excused himself, left House in the living room of the loft, and hurried to the bathroom to vomit. Mayfield had been Wilson's idea, but he swore that night that he would never force House to go back there should another detox become necessary.

"You won't go through that again," Wilson assured him. "It's my fault that you went to Mayfield and went through that hell, but _we'll _find a facility where you can go through soft detox, sedated throughout. We'll get through it."

"We?" House echoed, frowning. "You mean _I_ would go through it."

Shaking his head, Wilson sat forward in his seat. "No. I meant that this time I'll be there. I'll make certain you get the best, most humane care possible. _We_, House."

They stared at each other for a few moments and Wilson could tell that House was studying him, trying to determine whether he could believe him or not.

A sigh escaped House. "I…I can't. Not now…I'm not saying never, I just…I'm not ready."

Wilson saw the earnestness in his eyes. Though he lacked personal experience Wilson knew intellectually that the fear of detox was often more painful psychologically than the actual detox itself. He wanted to believe House, needed to…

"Okay," Wilson murmured, nodding. Pushing House any further right now, he figured, would get him nowhere. He wouldn't give up, though. He simply couldn't give up on the man he loved.

Breakfast arrived and they ate. Wilson had the opportunity to learn more about the prostitute who ate with them. Her name was Fiona and she was a graduate student studying abnormal psychology at Princeton. Nobody had forced her into the escort industry, as she called it. She had no pimp, had never touched drugs and had 'two of the best parents a girl could have' in a loving, secure home. She had graduated valedictorian from her high school. She did what she did because the money was better than anything she could possibly make working part-time in a more 'moral' occupation.

"I decide when I work and how often. I take care of myself physically and am extremely careful when it comes to protection from STIs. I genuinely love meeting new people and I won't lie, I like the sex…usually. Sure, there are some clients that I have to force myself to endure, but then I never accept them back as clients. I'm nobody's victim."

"But you have to agree that there are young women in your industry who are the victims of pimps, abuse and other terrible circumstances," Wilson persisted.

"Of course," Fiona agreed. "And don't forget the young men who are forced into prostitution. They suffer just as much if not more so, because people forget about them or assume that because they are male they can't be controlled by a pimp or other circumstances beyond their control. That's why there are people like me who lobby for the legalization of prostitution. It takes the trade out of the black market and back alleys where young men and women get lost and hurt. It allows for professional organization of the industry including standards of practice, regular mandatory health checks, regulated safe sex, licensing, and the freedom for a worker who gets into trouble with a client or pimp to turn to the police for help without fear of being arrested. Those opposed to the idea fear that it will increase the numbers of people entering the industry, and bring with it other criminal activities commonly associated with it now. However, those tag-a-long problems are made capable of existing because as long as prostitution is illegal everything is hidden in the shadows again. Bring it out of the shadows into the light and you'll see a reduction in associated crime, not an increase."

"Beautiful and smart too," House said with a half-smile, obviously impressed with her argument. Wilson was too, but he still had his reservations. Regardless, Fiona had taught him not to make assumptions based on rumors and stereotypes.

Wilson only wished that House would stop sleeping with them when he could have him, when he wanted House so badly. It wasn't exactly jealousy he felt, since he knew that these women meant nothing to House on a personal level, yet it was because they got to lay close to House, skin against skin, feel his hands roaming their bodies, feel his mouth on them, see his face when House lets go of control as he reaches ecstasy—all things he could only dream about happening to him.

The topic gradually changed to House's current case and how it was proceeding.

"I was able to determine that the patient was suffering cognitive delays similar in nature to complex partial seizure activity," House explained, "by setting a metronome going and having him sing. If it was a form of cognitive delay he shouldn't be able to use external cues for him to compensate and thus camouflage the problem. It worked. He couldn't hold the beat and had obvious lapses."

"That's…brilliant," Wilson commented, genuinely impressed, but then again, that wasn't unusual when it concerned his best friend's medical prowess and creativity.

House shrugged. "Yeah. It was," he agreed blandly, taking no pride or pleasure in the accomplishment. Wilson frowned slightly but said nothing. After breakfast House sauntered out onto the balcony with his cup of coffee and leaned against the rail. Wilson joined him, standing a few feet away from him. He wanted to stand closer but didn't trust himself. They stood there surveying the view but Wilson was too distracted by his concern for House to really comprehend what all he was seeing on a conscious level.

"**It's understandable,**" Wilson finally said to break the silence. He could feel House glaring at him.

"**I hate when you do that,**" his older friend told him. "**You responded with what you think I'm thinking, because you think that I think like _you_ do. It's insulting and annoying.**"

Wilson continued his thought, ignoring him. "**You're scared because nothing excites you—fun doesn't excite you, puzzles don't excite you—what's left? And I was saying you're right. You're upset, you're depressed, everything's gonna taste a little worse right now, but…it'll pass.**" _I hope,_ Wilson thought but didn't say aloud.

House didn't respond right away. All that could be heard was the sound of traffic below, the siren of an ambulance some distance away and the movements of Fiona as she gathered stuff in preparation to leave.

Instead of denying what Wilson had put out there, House sarcastically mimicked him instead. "**It's _understandable._ You're scared because you think I'm falling apart, and you're trying to convince yourself that you're overreacting.**"

Wilson looked at House. He couldn't deny that his friend was bang on the money. He wondered if House realized that 'falling apart' were _his_ words, not Wilson's, and that it could be interpreted that House was admitting backhandedly that he was _not_ fine like he'd been claiming all along.

Back inside the suite Wilson heard House's cell phone ring. Fiona picked it up; a moment later she appeared on the balcony, extending the devise out to its owner.

"**It keeps ringing,**" she told him. House took the phone from her and she retreated back inside.

"**Yeah?**" House answered into the phone. Wilson could only hear House's end of the conversation but still developed a pretty good idea of who was on the other end.

"**That sucks,**" he heard House respond to the person on the phone, likely Foreman. "**Now we have to blow up his heart.**"

Immediately Wilson turned to look at House in surprise but the latter didn't pay any attention to him. _Blow up his patient's heart? _That really didn't sound like something House and his team should consider doing, but Wilson knew House and could tell that he wasn't flying high and out of his reasonable mind. Therefore, there had to be a logical explanation and a good reason for what he was suggesting. Wilson doubted, however, that Cuddy would be prepared to agree to something that drastic, which meant a showdown between House and her seemed inevitable. Wilson sighed and cringed mentally. That wasn't going to be pretty; he hoped that the encounter wouldn't speed up House's tailspin any more than it was already taking place.

He didn't want his nightmares of the past few days to come true; as long as House was depressed and using mind-altering drugs that would remain a distinct possibility.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Six

Wilson had missed seeing House when he showed up at PPTH the next day to be present for the dangerous procedure he'd talked to his team about the night before. The plan had been to determine whether or not the infection they suspected was causing the neurological symptoms in their patient could be detected in his heart by raising his blood pressure through the heart and associated armies and waiting to see if there were any leaks that sprang due to infection-damaged tissue. It was an insanely dangerous diagnostic procedure, but one that was absolutely necessary to test their theory. If they were proven to be correct, then they knew how to treat the cowboy. If they weren't…well, he was well on his way to the morgue anyway.

He'd been busy with his own patients and Fridays were Wilson's days for performing biopsies and simple tumor resections. By the time he'd finished in the OR, House had already returned to his hotel room at the resort. Wilson had stopped by House's office before heading home with hopes of catching him. Foreman had been seated alone in the DDx room adjacent to it. Wilson approached him.

"How did the procedure go?" he asked the neurologist. "Did his heart blow up?"

Foreman looked up from the medical journal he was reading and nodded. "It did. It was a fungal infection after all. Cuddy almost prevented us from being able to perform it, though. I wasn't there but I heard from the charge nurse who had overheard their conversation that Cuddy came down on House, claiming he was risking our patient's life to get his kicks and get back at her. Apparently he tore into her, mocking her for thinking so and reminding her that his wisdom and knowledge when high was still far superior to her or anyone else in the hospital. House challenged her to have security arrest him or get out of his way. She caved."

Wilson pictured in his mind's eye the confrontation as Foreman described it, and knew that it had to have been ugly. He smiled slightly at House's victory, but it also showed that House's hurt and anger was as sharp and raw as ever. Maybe it had been a bad idea to stop by Cuddy's the night before. Cuddy seemed to have interpreted what Wilson had told her as meaning that House's every action and professional decision was influenced by his heartache over being spurned for her.

"Well, at least House can enjoy the satisfaction of proving her wrong," Wilson said with a sigh. "I take it he's left already?"

"Yeah," Foreman answered with a nod. "Wilson?"

"Hmm?"

The neurologist leveled a serious look on him. "Ordinarily House gets cocky when he's right but this time…this time he acted like he'd watched a bag of microwave popcorn pop. His affect was completely flat, neither disappointed nor pleased. You…you might want to check on him tonight. I just have this feeling…"

Wilson nodded in acknowledgement and agreement. He was glad to know that he wasn't the only one concerned about House's behavior.

"I'll do that," Wilson told him before leaving Foreman behind. This time he would make certain that he did.

Traffic was heavy and it seemed to take him forever to reach the Princeton Grand Resort but when he did he hesitated in the hotel lobby, debating whether or not it was in House's best interest to check up on him after what had happened last night. Lately, every conversation he had with House ended up badly; as a result his visits couldn't be having a positive influence on House.

Wilson decided he needed a drink and a few minutes to think over his next move, so he went to the lounge instead. When he got there the bartender recognized him and mentioned that House had been there just a couple minutes earlier and that Wilson had just missed him.

There was a tremendous amount of noise coming from the patio. "What's going on there?" Wilson inquired.

The bartender smiled ruefully. "A bunch of students whose team _lost_. They're having a party to cheer themselves up. Go figure. You know, your friend might have gone out there to check out the party. He was questioning what was up with them, too."

Wilson thanked him and then headed for the patio outside. there were so many young adults milling about holding drinks in their hands and having fun that he couldn't see more than a couple of feet ahead of him. He noticed that there were gasps from a few people who stopped what they were doing and stared upward at something overhead. Some were pointing. Soon the majority of those on the patio was looking up and murmuring or gasping. When one particularly inebriated male cried out, "Jump, bro!" Wilson turned and looked up as well. What he saw caused him to gasp and stop breathing, his eyes widening in horror.

Five stories up a tall, slender man stood on the railing that surrounded the balcony behind him, one hand pressed against the balcony above for balance, staring down at the crowd. That balcony was just off the suite his best friend had been staying in.

The man on the rail was Gregory House.

It was hard to see the details of the expression on House's face from that distance, but Wilson could tell that House looked lost, defeated and probably so drunk and stoned that he was out of his mind.

House was going to jump to his death. Wilson felt rooted to the concrete beneath his feet, paralyzed by abject terror. The man he loved, the most important person to Wilson ever, was moments away from committing suicide and leaving him all alone, breaking his heart.

_Please, House, oh god, please no!_ Wilson's mind screamed because his voice couldn't—it had caught the last train out of there. _Cuddy's just not worth it! She's a bitch who's not worthy of your love! Please, I need you…I love you! Don't jump!_

At that moment House's eyes found Wilson's and seized them. He knew that Wilson was there, that he would be watching him plummet to his death. A small, sad smile crossed House's lips, sending the sensation of cold water filling Wilson up and turning his blood to ice. Was that House's way of saying good-bye?

Another communal gasp rippled over the crowd as House lowered his hand from the balcony above him, leaving him balancing precariously on the rail for just a moment before he lifted a foot and took a step off the balcony. He began to drop.

Time and the world around Wilson seemed to slow down. He couldn't hear anything but his heart tearing in his chest as House hurtled toward the earth. This was it, the end of the line for House. His chances of surviving the impact of his body hitting the concrete were so minute as to be ridiculous to even consider. _I've lost him!_

"**Noooooo!**" Wilson screamed, stumbling forward as if he could save House if he could just get under him and break his fall. Down, down, down House fell, closer and closer to the ground. At the last moment Wilson heard his friend cry out what was possibly the last word he would ever hear House say.

"**Caaaannnooonnnbaaalll!**"

Wilson watched, stunned, as House pulled his legs up into a tuck-position and disappeared behind the wall of people between him and his friend. Expecting to hear the revolting thud and splat of House's body slamming into the ground, Wilson cringed, ready to vomit. When he heard a giant splash and saw a geyser-like fountain of water rise over the heads of the human wall he nearly collapsed in surprise. No, he couldn't have! No, no this wasn't—he didn't—!

House had landed in the pool that had been hidden from Wilson by the crowd. An explosive group cheer rose from the students on the patio and deck and suddenly, one after another, they began to jump, fully-clothed, into the swimming pool with House.

He couldn't believe that what had happened had actually happened; that House had purposefully jumped into the pool and was now splashing around, cheering and partying with the rest. Wilson felt himself go numb and he stumbled towards the pool deck, staring at his best friend in shocked disbelief.

House looked directly at Wilson and laughed.

_That goddamned sonofabitch! _He had just terrified Wilson beyond anything the oncologist had ever experienced in his life, toyed with his heart, nearly gave him a heart attack and now mocked him. How could House do that to him? How could he be so uncaring and cruel…?

The numbness disappeared as explosive anger; fear and hurt detonated in Wilson and he let loose.

"**What. The. Hell. Are. You. Doing!**" Wilson screamed at him, on the verge of a literal breakdown.

Still smiling defiantly at Wilson, House shouted out to the other partiers in the pool, "**What do you do when you win?**"

The response was in unison and immediate. "**Party!**"

House went on. "**What do you do when you lose?**"

Everyone but Wilson shouted, "**Party harder!**" They began to cheer, laugh, and squeal. House gave Wilson a devil-may-care smirk, rubbing salt into Wilson's wounded heart. Someone handed House a bottle of beer.

Wilson shook his head, in dismay, unable to do anything but stagger away from the pool in disgust, leaving the damned bastard he couldn't stop loving behind.

Wilson headed through the lounge to get to the lobby; as he did he noticed a dark haired man dressed in tan polo shirt and khakis seated at a table just inside the lounge with a woman with medium-length, dark hair with her back turned to Wilson. The man stared at him the entire way until Wilson was in the lobby. He shivered involuntarily. There had been something about those eyes that Wilson found disturbing. He pushed that thought quickly out of his mind, though. He was still trembling from the terror he'd experienced just moments before and all he could think about was the image of House jumping over and over again, a part of Wilson dying each time.

All he wanted to do was get as far away from Gregory House as he could; the pain was too great. He just couldn't take watching House come closer and closer to killing himself with each passing day. He saw it live during the day and replayed it over and over again in his dreams at night. Wilson knew he was going to have a nervous breakdown if he continued to care about Gregory House, but he couldn't stop, didn't want to, deep down inside. He figured his fate—his soul—was so linked with House's that he was doomed to destruction with him, and House didn't care. He didn't fucking give a damn what he was doing to Wilson, and knowing that hurt him the most.

So when Wilson found himself standing at the door of House's hotel suite rather than his car, he couldn't muster enough heart to be surprised. Of _course_ he'd come back here. No matter what House did, Wilson kept coming back to him like a moth on a suicide course to a flame. At first he just stood there until he realized that something was holding the door ajar just enough to have kept it from latching and locking. Without even thinking about it, Wilson pushed the door open and shuffled inside. He stood in the entrance and surveyed the disorder of the cluttered, filthy evidence of House's week of debauchery. It reeked of self-destruction, self-hatred, and the desperate but futile effort to feel something other than pain or nothing at all.

Tears stung Wilson's eyes as the reality of just how far down House had spiraled into despair brought him sadness and pain as well.

"Why won't you let me help you?" Wilson whispered miserably. "Why won't you let me love you?"

He shuffled to the bed, burdened by a fatigue that threatened to drag him to the grave if he didn't lie down. Sitting on the end of the bed Wilson leaned forward and hid his face in his hands.

House was beyond his reach. There was no way Wilson had the strength, knowledge and resources to save his friend from taking the next plunge without a net or pool to catch him. It was only a matter of time. Wilson began to sob into his hands. This was his fault, all his fault.

He was crying too hard to hear House enter the suite. Soaking wet, House limped, sans cane, up to the bed and stopped in front of Wilson, unnoticed. It wasn't until House dropped onto the bed next to Wilson that he looked up. Wilson's face was red, swollen, covered in tears and he didn't give a shit if House saw it and began to mock him.

"I wasn't trying to kill myself," House told Wilson quietly. "I was just having fun."

"_Fun?_" Wilson echoed bitterly, shaking his head. "I didn't see the pool. All I saw was my…my b-best friend…falling to his death and…and there was nothing I could do to…" He couldn't finish because of renewed sobs wracking him.

"Wilson, don't be so melodramatic," House told him, rolling his eyes.

The rage that had overwhelmed Wilson immediately after House had hit the pool returned in an instant upon House's comment and before he knew what he was doing Wilson grabbed House, lifted him off the bed, and pushed him hard against the nearest wall. He used the weight of his body, the advantage of leverage, and the strength of rage to pin House and hold him still despite the older man's efforts to push him off.

"Jesus Christ, Wilson!" House shouted angrily, "Get the fuck off me! What has gotten into you? Have you gone completely insane?"

"When are you going to get it through your thick skull that every time to hurt yourself you hurt me, too?" Wilson roared. "This is not a joke, House! Melodramatic? You're calling _me_ melodramatic? What the hell do you call running away from your problems, becoming a playboy at this resort, drinking and drugging yourself to the gills and then jumping off a fifth story balcony into a swimming pool surrounded by concrete? Huh? You're the one being fucking melodramatic, and I just can't take it! Tell me what it is I have to do to get you to understand how much I care about you, because I just can't stand to watch this anymore!"

"Then leave!" House spat, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "Nobody asked you to come here! I don't need you, I don't want you, so go the fuck away!"

"If only I could!" Wilson nearly screamed, tears still streaming down his cheeks. "If I only I _could_ just up and walk away and not allow your behavior to frighten me and cut me to my core anymore…but I can't. I can't! I care about you too much to just walk away and let you slowly kill yourself. Haven't you figured out yet how lost I would be…without…without you, you _fucking idiot_? When are you going to stop punishing me for lo—caring for you? When?"

"Care for me?" House growled, still struggling again Wilson, who was stronger than he looked. "Like when you married those bitches and pushed me away over and over again? When you kicked me out of the loft? Or maybe you mean the way you cared so much about me that you came to check on me after Foreman told you about what had happened at the crane disaster site and Hannah dying?"

"I've fucked up for years," Wilson admitted, nodding. "I know I've hurt you. I wish…you have _no idea_ how much I wish I could turn back time and do things differently, but I can't. But I'm here _now_, House. I'm here for you but you want nothing to do with me—you won't talk to me and let me help you through this! Why can't you just…!"

"Just what?" House demanded, scowling.

Wilson couldn't say it. He simply couldn't ask House to let him love him—but he had to. He had to tell him because Wilson had no idea when the next act of reckless stupidity would occur and he didn't want House to die not knowing his true feelings.

The words wouldn't come; so, desperate to tell House nevertheless, Wilson did the only thing he could think of to get his message across to his jackass friend.

Wilson attacked House's mouth with years' worth of pent up love, desire, anger, lust and angst—years and _years_ of fear and pain and longing. He possessed House's mouth, conquered it, plunged his tongue into it and took command over _his_ tongue, too. Wilson expected House to fight him, to thrash his head about and struggle to push Wilson away and at first it appeared that that was exactly what he was trying to do. However, after a few seconds of struggle, House relaxed and began to kiss back; his struggling against Wilson stilled. A small, hungry moan escaped House's throat and was swallowed by Wilson.

The kiss began to transform from a violent, non-consensual attack to a passionate, gentle, mutually desired joining of their mouths and pressing together of their bodies. Wilson released House's arms when he placed his own hands on either side of House's face. He felt two long, strong arms slide around his waist and pull him in even tighter. Wilson couldn't get over how incredible a kisser his best friend was. His desire was ignited and like a flame it began to burn in his chest and belly, the heat moving down to his pelvis. Blood began to fill Wilson's cock, causing it to harden.

Eventually they had to part in order to breathe, both panting and staring into each other's eyes.

"What the fuck are you doing?" House breathed, his face possessed by desire, hungry yet fearful blue eyes gazing deeply into Wilson's bubbling brown pools of melted chocolate heat.

"If you don't know, then I can't help you," Wilson murmured, smiling ever so slightly, his thumbs caressing House's cheekbones. He leaned back in and kissed him again, a long, hot, wet, voraciously passionate kiss earning another moan of desire from House, whose hands began to pull Wilson's button-down up and undershirt out of his pants and then slid underneath to rub circles over the muscles of his back. He could feel House harden next to him.

It was like a dream and Wilson was afraid he would wake up from any moment to discover that none of this was real. He'd fantasized for years about holding House like this, kissing him, caressing him, causing him to harden and moan in desire and appreciation. It was so hot that Wilson couldn't help but groan himself.

Suddenly House broke the kiss and pushed Wilson away, trembling. He shook his graying head, longing combining with fear and regret in his eyes. "We can't do this. It has to stop here, before it's too late."

Stunned and horny, Wilson looked at House and shook his head in dismay. "No, Greg, we both want this too much. We've waited so long…it's time to stop denying how we really feel about each other!"

"I don't deny that I care deeply for you," House answered, avoiding his gaze. "I admit to wanting you for a long time, but we can't cross this line. Look at what happened to my last relationship. I fucked up big time, I couldn't be the man Cuddy wanted and needed. I won't be able to do any better for you. I'll only end up screwing up or pushing you away into the arms of some pretty blonde with a sad story and in need of a shoulder to cry on. You won't be able to help yourself, and we'll break-up. Only, if we were to break-up romantically, our friendship would be over too, and I can't lose that. I can't lose you from my life completely. If you think I'm spiraling now…" His voice trailed off and he closed his eyes.

"That won't happen," Wilson insisted. "I'm not Cuddy. I don't expect you to change who you are because I have some fairy tale notion that I can make you a better man. Damnit, Greg, you're the only one who can do that if you want to; I love you just the way you are. Adding this won't ruin our relationship; it will complete it. Don't you understand that?"

House forced himself to meet Wilson's gaze again and Wilson saw instantly that he had lost this argument, and part of his heart as well.

"You say you don't want me to change, and maybe you even believe that," House said seriously, "but Cuddy thought that at first, too. She was wrong; so are you." Wilson tried to interrupt but House wouldn't let him, continuing, "There is one constant in my life, James, and this is it: I hurt and disappoint everybody who gets too close. I pushed Stacy away, Cuddy dumped me, and if I were to let us enter a foolhardy relationship, eventually you'd end up leaving me, too. Then I really wouldn't have anything left to live for. For the sake of our friendship, we can't pursue this any further. I won't."

House pushed his way past Wilson, who watched him walk over to the bed, facing away. He couldn't believe this was happening. It wasn't supposed to end this way—it couldn't.

"I'm not Stacy, and I'm not Cuddy," Wilson told him, desperate to change his best friend's mind. "I've seen you at your best and your worst and you've witnessed the same with me and yet here we are, still friends. Neither one of us is going anywhere, Greg, no matter what; we've proven that time and again. So cut the bullshit, grow a pair, and quit running away!"

"No," House told him simply, with finality. "I think you need to go."

Wilson strode up to House, stopping about three feet away from him. "I'm not going anywhere! This conversation isn't over!"

"Yes," House declared, his eyes flaring and the volume of his voice rising, "it _is_! Now get out or I'll have security throw you out!" When Wilson recoiled slightly, House added quieter, "Please, Wilson, go home and sleep on this. Tomorrow morning, when you're thinking more rationally, you'll realize that I'm right."

"When _I'm_ more rational?" Wilson laughed bitterly, but House didn't respond. He simply stared at a spot on the floor somewhere between them. Realizing that House had his mind set and wouldn't be persuaded anymore that night, Wilson swallowed down his frustration and hurt. "Fine. I'll leave—for now. But this isn't over. I love you, Greg, and I know now that you love me too, whether you'll admit it or not. I won't let this go." He headed for the door.

"Wilson," House said as he touched the door knob. Wilson looked back, hoping that House had had a sudden change of heart, but he was quickly shown that he was mistaken.

"Yes?"

"Let it go," House murmured, meeting his eyes for only a second before diverting his gaze to the floor again.

Sighing, Wilson shook his head, opened the door, and left the hotel suite. On his way to his car, he didn't notice the man from the lounge he'd spotted earlier now slowly rise from a chair in the lobby and follow him out of the hotel; nor did he notice when said stranger got into a black sedan and followed Wilson at a distance the entire way back to the loft before pulling up at the curb in front of the condo complex, jotting down the address onto a small business card, and then pulling back into traffic.


	7. Chapter 7

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Seven

Wilson spent the entire next day drunk and paid for it on Sunday, which was like a vacation in hell for him. His head felt like it was going to explode, the pain was so bad, and he couldn't keep water down much less anything else. By mid-afternoon he knew he was in trouble if he didn't get some fluids into him. He tried to think about who at the hospital he could trust. Aside from House and maybe Cuddy, he didn't really have anyone so he chose the person he distrusted the least and gave that person a call.

Forty-five minutes later there was a knock on the front door. Wilson had bundled himself up in blankets and nested in the living room on the sofa with a basin nearby, though he didn't really need it anymore; there was literally nothing left in his stomach to vomit.

"Wilson?" the familiar voice called from the other side of the door.

"It's open, Chase," Wilson managed to call back and then immediately wished he hadn't when the sound and volume of his own voice made the pain of his headache spike. God, he felt like death! The sound of the front door opening and then clicking shut again told him that the Australian had entered the loft. Wilson didn't dare open his eyes; he knew Chase would turn on the lights which would, in turn, turn up Wilson's pain level.

The next thing he sensed was a cool hand taking his wrist to check his pulse.

"That must have been quite the party," Chase commented quietly; he sounded as if he were crouching beside Wilson. There was the coolness of a hand brushing Wilson's forehead as Chase crudely gauged Wilson's temperature.

"There's enough sunlight left that I didn't have to turn on any lamps," Chase told him. "You can open your eyes. I'd like to check your pupils."

"Just don't shine a penlight in them," Wilson murmured. He slowly raised his eyelids. There was a sudden flash of brilliant light that brought with it agony. Wilson's eyes shut tightly again and he covered them with his arm. "Damnit, Chase! What did I just say?"

"I had to check for reactivity and pupil size," the younger doctor told him unapologetically. "You know that. You can open them without fear; I won't be checking them again anytime soon. I do want to check your BP though, if I can locate your other arm."

Cautiously Wilson opened his eyes to look at Chase; relieved that he wasn't assaulted with light again, he kept them open and withdrew his right arm from the deep folds of his comforter cocoon. He was wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt which made it all the easier for Chase to wrap the sphygmomanometer cuff around his bicep. Chase's medical bag rested on the coffee table, laid open. Also on the table was an IV kit and a bag of saline, a couple of medicine vials, packets holding alcohol towelettes and a syringe still in a sterile plastic package.

"You look like shit," Chase told him pointedly as he put the earphones of his stethoscope into his ears and placed the drum against the inside of Wilson's elbow. He began to squeeze the ball in his other hand; the cuff tightened around Wilson's arm.

The patient was about to retort to the insult but Chase shushed him and carefully opened the valve on the cuff, his eyes glued to the gauge. A few seconds later he removed the cuff from Wilson's arm. "One-oh-six over fifty –two."

Wilson nodded in acknowledgement. "I haven't been able to keep anything down, not even water. My stomach feels like it's on fire."

"Dehydration and alcoholic gastritis," Chase informed him, though he needn't have; Wilson was a doctor too, and he knew exactly what the malady was and the cause—he needed Chase there to administer the treatment. "I thought House was the one sucking back intoxicants with reckless abandon. You wouldn't happen to be gulping Vicodin, too, would you?"

Wilson scowled at him. "Of course not. I drank a little too much—it happens."

"This is more than getting tipsy at a party," was the argument. Chase looked at the empties from a six-pack still lying scattered on the table and floor; a large bottle of bourbon, also empty, and a half-full bottle of Bordeaux sitting on the island in the kitchen. "It looks like you brought the party home with you, if there even was a party."

It was obvious that Chase wasn't buying the story Wilson had given him over the phone, but he didn't feel like telling him the truth: that for the second time in less than a year someone he cared about had rejected him, and this time it had been the most important person in the world to him. After coming home from the hotel the night before last, all Wilson had wanted to do was drown his misery.

Chase pulled on a pair of gloves and began to prepare a syringe. "Parecetamol and dimenhydrinate to get the pain and nausea under control."

After the shot Chase then escorted Wilson to his bedroom where he set Wilson up with an IV, hanging the bag of saline from the headboard of Wilson's bed.

Before leaving Wilson to rest, Chase asked, "This doesn't happen often, does it, Wilson? Is there something you need to tell me?"

Shaking his head, Wilson sighed, relaxed back into his pillow and replied, "I don't have a drinking problem, Chase. I fucked up something pretty badly and made it worse by getting loaded. I'll be fine. Thanks for coming over."

"This have to do with House, by any chance?"

Wilson met Chase's gaze for a moment in confirmation then closed his eyes. "I think the dimenhydrinate is kicking in."

"Sleep well," Chase told him, leaving the room and quietly shutting the door behind him.

Wilson hadn't been lying. An indeterminate period of time later he woke to find that it was dark outside the bedroom window. His head spun a little from the dimenhydrinate shot Chase had given him. He glanced up at the saline bag and noticed that it was still three-quarters full. Apparently he hadn't been asleep for long. That conclusion was proven wrong when his gaze looked around the dark room and noticed by the thin moonlight coming in the window that there was an empty saline bag on the bedside table beside him. Apparently someone had changed it while he was sleeping so he'd been out for a while. Had Chase stopped by a second time to check on him?

All he knew for certain was that he had to pee. Slowly Wilson climbed out of bed, carried the IV bag with him to the bathroom and relieved himself. He washed his hands, careful to avoid disturbing the needle in his wrist; he hated having to carry an IV around with him but he knew he needed to replenish his fluids. His headache had weakened to a dull throb and his stomach, while still a little touchy, wasn't doing somersaults like it had been before Chase came over.

He knew he should probably go back to bed but he simply didn't feel like it. Instead he made his way toward the living room. The closer to the living room he got, the louder the sound of the television became. Was Chase still here? It was certainly kind of the Australian to stick around to make certain Wilson was going to be okay but it wasn't necessary.

As soon as he saw what was on the TV screen in the otherwise dark room he stopped cold. Monster trucks roared loudly as they drove over and crushed cars flat. He blinked, and then saw the silhouette of the back of an all-too-familiar head.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Wilson demanded weakly, shuffling toward the sofa. He stood at the end opposite House, still carrying his IV bag above heart level. "Where's Chase?"

House threw a few potato chips into his mouth, crunched on and swallowed them, then answered the question without looking at him. "Chase had a hot date. He called me once the Gravol took effect and you were out like a light. Told me that you were dangerously dehydrated and had called him instead of an ambulance. Seeing all of the booze bottles lying around, I now know why you didn't want to be taken to the hospital."

Wilson didn't know how to feel about seeing his friend sitting there, pretending not to give a damn but in truth caring quite a bit. House didn't like to babysit, whether the person he was watching was three or forty-three. His feelings were bittersweet.

"Well, as you can see, I'm better so you can go back to the resort now. I'm certain that Carnell will have a beautiful bombshell waiting for you when you get there."

"Well, about the resort," House said, glancing sideways as Wilson sat down on the sofa as well. "Apparently in the small print of the contract I signed there was an Anti-Five Story Cannonball clause I forgot to read."

"You got kicked out," Wilson translated, unable to hide the 'serves-you-right' smirk blooming on his face. "Surely that doesn't surprise you."

House shrugged. "Nobody knows how to have a good time anymore. Regardless, I'm back in my apartment now."

It was silent for a moment or two before House said, "Hey, you have blood backing up the IV tubing. Hang the bag on the lampshade beside you."

Doing so, the flow in the tube reversed itself again and headed back into Wilson's body.

"So why are you really here, House?" he asked with a sigh. "You made it very clear Friday night that you weren't interested in anything than what we've always had. Why aren't you still seeking the next high as we speak."

"I came to tell you that the heartbroken lush shtick is mine so cut it out."

"I think we've both established in the past that neither of us handles rejection well," was Wilson's reply. "Except, that's two in one year for me, so I think I have more to get drunk about than you do. There, you've said it. Mission accomplished. Now leave."

"You're kicking me out?" House inquired, genuinely surprised. "But it's raining outside and the roads are slick. I came on the deathtrap, you know. I could easily hydroplane and—"

"It hurts to see you right now!" Wilson shouted, glaring at the source of his pain; the volume of his own voice made his head hurt like someone was driving a spike through his temple. "It hurts to know that I've made a total fucking ass of myself, that no matter what I do you're going to continue your slow method of suicide and nothing is going to change any of it! Fuck it!" Wilson grabbed the IV line and viciously pulled the needle from his arm; blood immediately began to run in the direction of gravity's pull. "If you won't leave then I will!"

Clamping a hand over the wound to staunch most of the flow, Wilson rose from the sofa—a little too quickly. Grey snow filled his vision and he felt as if he was spinning. He began to list forward and on the periphery of his senses felt House grab him to steady him and keep him from fainting away completely. House forced him to sit back down; the sensation of his feet being lifted up onto the sofa, elevated on an armrest, and his body being laid back so that he was laying down penetrated the fog. After what seemed to be only a few more seconds the grey began to dissipate and his vision began to clear.

House was gone for a moment or two but returned with the first aid kit Wilson kept in the cabinet under the kitchen sink.

"Lay still, idiot," he told Wilson gruffly. "You of all people should know better than to get up that quickly when you're dehydrated. Plus, you've screwed up the vein in your right arm so now I have to start a new IV line in your left. Don't blame me when it hurts to do your paperwork tomorrow. You got some of that gay blood of yours on the sofa and I don't think anything is going to get those stains out."

"My blood's no gayer than yours," Wilson retorted, still feeling dizzy and disoriented. "If I'd known that before, I would have jumped your bones a long time ago."

"You didn't exactly jump out of the closet wearing a rainbow wig and announce that you swing both ways either, Jimmy," House shot back as he bandaged the IV site on his right hand. "In fact, you were the one making the biggest objections when Nora thought we were partners, if I remember correctly—and I do."

"Hey," Wilson said, "I'm the one who got down on his knee in public and proposed—what straight man do you know would be willing to do that just to thwart his friend's efforts to get laid? I even sung music from "A Chorus Line' for you. What the hell more did I have to do—skywrite it?"

"I woke you in the middle of the night serenading you, singing George Michael, for Christ's sake!" House responded in their little one-upping war of theirs. "You're the one who went running back to the harpy after we both realized what giving me the organ meant."

"I was scared." Wilson closed his eyes in humiliation.

House, who was sitting on the coffee table as he tended to Wilson, sat up straight and frowned. "Of what?"

A shuddering breath escaped Wilson; he felt like he was on the verge of tears and didn't want to breakdown again in front of House and thus set himself up for further mockery by the man.

"Of being rejected." Wilson's voice was soft, sad. "Like Friday night. Of ruining everything, like I obviously have."

House had found some of the extra supplies Chase had brought to the loft and started a new IV in Wilson's left arm, then started him on saline again. He remained silent as he prepared a Vitamin B6 shot for Wilson, but the oncologist could tell that he was thinking deeply as he did all of this. House delivered the shot and then began to clean up the area of any wrappers and biohazardous materials, shoving them into an empty glass on the table.

"Look, I understand what you're afraid of," Wilson told him weakly. "I don't want to lose you, either, but just stand back and take an objective look at our friendship as it stands right now. If, after doing that, you can honestly say that what we're currently doing is working and that our friendship has never been stronger, then I won't bring up how I really feel about you again. If, however, you see what I see—that our friendship is crumbling because we keep hurting each other by looking for love and fulfillment with others whom we don't love as much as we do each other, then you can't keep arguing that…that becoming lovers will only make things worse."

"Wilson—" House began to object, but Wilson could hear his resistance crumbling in his voice and pressed harder.

"Just…just think about it. That's all I ask."

"What happens if I do and I come to the same conclusion?" House asked. "Are you going to drink yourself to death?"

Wilson shook his head ruefully. "No. It was just a one day bender, and believe me, I'm regretting it."

"You should," House told him, but there was no bite to his words. "Look, I have to return to work tomorrow before Cuddy hands my job over to Foreman again and you've got dying bald people to fawn over. If it's okay with you, I'll crash here in my old bedroom and you'll go back to bed and stay there."

"Uh, sure…oh, wait. Sam took your bed down and put it into storage so she could use the space as her home office," Wilson told him. "I was going to retrieve it and set up your room again if you had agreed to move back in. You can use my bed tonight and I'll crash here on the couch."

"You need to get a proper night's sleep," House argued. He looked toward the large windows and Wilson followed his gaze. It was still pouring outside and from the way the rain hit the glass, it appeared that the wind had picked up, too. "I'll head home."

Wilson looked at him as if he were insane. There was no way he was going to let House ride home on his motorcycle in this weather. "Don't be stupid! You'll end up as road-kill. At least stay here and sleep on the sofa if you won't take the bed."

"And end up having that walking hairball suffocate me during the night?" was the dubious reaction. "No way."

Suddenly it occurred to Wilson that he'd totally forgotten about Sarah, to feed her and give her the necessary insulin shots. "Damn—_I forgot about her_! She could be—!"

"Relax," House told him. "I fed her and administered her last shot, right before she ungratefully clawed me and ran away. If I end up with cat-scratch fever, I'm holding you personally responsible."

Wilson smiled in spite of himself. House grabbed his cane and stood up from the coffee table.

"You are _not_ riding on those streets," Wilson told him sternly. "Stop being so damned stubborn. I have a solution. I'll keep Sarah in my room overnight. She usually sleeps on the end of my bed, anyway. She won't bother you."

"You certain you can control yourself and not jump me in the middle of the night?" House asked him, half-wary, half-amused.

"It'll be a struggle," Wilson replied drily, "but I think I can manage. I'll just imagine you and Cuddy together and it'll kill any sex drive I may have for a week."

"Yeah," House replied softly. "Tell me about it."

Wilson wasn't certain what to think about that last comment but pushed it to the back of his mind for future analysis. "You can find the bedding you need in the hall linen closet."

"Yeah, I know," House replied. "I used to live here, remember?"

Wilson said nothing to that. "I'm going back to bed. Goodnight, House."

"G'night, Wilson."

**~H/W~**

He lay awake most of the night, unable to sleep. The man Wilson loved slept just a dozen or so feet away in the living room and here he lay alone in a king-size bed, listening to a cat purr contentedly in her sleep. He wanted to hear the soft snoring of House lying next to him, entangled with him, nude under the blankets. It was hard knowing that House wanted him too and yet they couldn't be together because of House's fear of calamity.

_Of course he fears calamity,_ a niggling voice that sounded very much like his own said in his head, _look at what he has just experienced, how lost he is now with being dumped by Cuddy. Why would he want to experience that again with you? House may want you, James, but that doesn't mean he loves you like he does Cuddy. He would only be rebounding, not really wanting you._

"But I _need_ him," Wilson whispered to the darkness.

He couldn't see House lying awake on the sofa, also unable to fall asleep. Once Wilson finally managed to drift off to sleep, he didn't hear House get up and begin to search the loft for any remaining booze and dump it down the kitchen drain. He didn't know that the rain had stopped around four-thirty a. m. at which time House peeked into his bedroom and stared at him for several minutes before he left, heading home.


	8. Chapter 8

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Eight

The next morning Wilson awoke when his alarm went off, feeling like shit. He struggled to wake up while showering and getting ready for work but couldn't seem to do it. That was likely to do with the insomnia he'd experienced the night before. He needed a lot of coffee to make it through the day, he decided.

After dressing, Wilson went to the kitchen to start a pot brewing when he noticed that House was gone, his bedding somewhat folded and sitting at the end of the sofa. The coffee table had been cleared and the empties were in the recycling box in the kitchen, including several which Wilson knew he hadn't drank any of the alcohol out of. He didn't know whether to be angry that House hadn't trusted him and had presumed to get rid of the liquor or to be touched by the display of concern for him and his sobriety.

Wilson arrived at the hospital two minutes late, which, as anyone who halfway knew him could vouch, was unusual for him. He headed straight to his office, successfully avoiding being seen by Cuddy coming in late. As he walked past diagnostics he noticed that House was already in his office, in much earlier than was usual for him. He sat behind his desk and in the office with him was a woman with pretty brown hair with her back to the door, seated in one of the rarely used visitor chairs next to House's desk. She had a cell phone to her ear, and House looked very uncomfortable as he stared at her. A new case? A consult?

Managing to catch his eye, Wilson gave him a weak salute in greeting. House did do anything in response, looking back at the woman. Disappointed by the slight but not surprised by it, Wilson continued on with his day.

He didn't see House again for the rest of the morning, but Wilson was stopped by Cuddy while heading to an oncology nursing unit to sign off on some medication changes for three of his patients. He was writing his John Hancock when Cuddy shouted at him from several feet away, causing him to jump and his pen to zigzag across the page from the end of his signature.

"Dr. Wilson!"

His heart continued to beat fast and hard in his chest as he glared questioningly at the Dean and then walked up to her wordlessly.

"Your office," she whispered, "now."

"What's wrong?" he demanded _sotto voce_, striding next to her towards his office. He figured it had something to do with House—that was the only real reason for interaction Wilson had with her anymore. For a moment he panicked. Had House mentioned to her about Wilson's revelation of love for him? Was she about to interrogate him, or humiliate him?

Cuddy didn't answer until they were in his office with the door closed. She pulled a small envelope out of nowhere and waved it in Wilson's face. "What the hell is this all about?"

He hadn't a clue what she was referring to, but was relieved that it wasn't about him. Looking at her like she had flipped her lid, Wilson shrugged and replied, "Care to fill me in on what it is I'm supposed to explain to you?"

"Stop the games, James," Cuddy commanded with a sigh. "You know what I'm talking about!"

"No, I honestly don't. Does it have something to do with that envelope?"

Regarding Wilson suspiciously, Cuddy stopped waving the stationary. "You mean he didn't give you one? You don't know that House is getting married?"

In that instant Wilson felt like he'd been kicked in the gut and all air had been forced out of his lungs. Married? No…no, this…this couldn't be true. House was not getting married!—to whom? It certainly wasn't _him_. No… this had to be some kind of joke or mistake. It _had_ to be!

"Not until now," Wilson managed to say, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat, trying to pull himself together. "May I see that?" He reached for the envelope which Cuddy surrendered to him and pulled out the matching stationary inside. Sure enough, it was a traditional wedding invitation announcing that House was going to be marrying a woman named Dominika Petrova on Friday evening in the hospital chapel. A reception (par-ty) was to follow. Wilson swallowed hard at the lump in his throat, feelings of jealousy and betrayal burning in his chest. How could House do this to him?

"He didn't say anything to me about this," Wilson told Cuddy softly, shaking his head. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised, considering the things he's been doing lately."

"Do you think he's serious about this, so soon after our break-up?" Cuddy asked him, and there was a strain in her voice that betrayed the hurt she was obviously feeling. Part of Wilson sympathized with her.

"I don't know," Wilson admitted, shrugging in frustration. Was this House's way of sticking it to Cuddy, hurting her to get back at her for the way her rejection hurt him? It could be an elaborate hoax—there might not even be a Miss Dominika Petrova. However…Wilson had a very bad feeling about this. "But I intend to find out. In the mean time, try not to let this get to you. House is acting erratically now that he's back on Vicodin…this all might be part of his imagination…." _Oh __**god**__…what if this is all a delusion House is having? What if this is all part of a giant hallucination, another manifestation of opiate psychosis? No. No, there is no reason to suspect that…yet._

"I'll talk with him and try to find out what is _really_ going on here," he assured her, hoping he sounded more assured than he felt.

"Well, he's in his office right now with _her_," Cuddy told him, frowning slightly. "Let me know what you find out."

Another stab of jealousy hit his heart; Wilson realized that the woman he'd seen sitting with House in his office earlier must have been this mysterious fiancée. Wilson asked, "She's _here_, at the hospital as we speak?"

"Yes," Cuddy replied and then sighed explosively. "I have to get back to work."

Wilson nodded and watched as the Dean marched out of his office, her four-inch heels clicking against the tile and the sound retreated with her until he could no longer hear it. Wilson set his jaw and closed his eyes, still holding the invitation. He hoped desperately that this was just a ruse. When he opened his eyes again, they were angry and resolute.

He strode determinedly to House's office next door. As he approached the clear glass door he could see House seated in his Eames chair, reclined with a facecloth draped over his face. The beautiful brunette was giving him a massage and Wilson immediately decided that she had to be one of the prostitutes Carnell had found for House who had been hired to play House's fiancée in whatever prank or scam his friend was running now. Wilson was angry at the way that House was toying with the feelings of those who cared about him the most.

He stormed into the office without knocking.

"**Congratulations on your engagement!**" Wilson sneered more harshly than he had intended. He didn't care that the raven-haired bride-to-be was staring at him curiously.

"**I hear a strange voice,**" House said, his voice muffled by the wet cloth on his face.

Dominika looked over Wilson from head to toe. "**A very soft looking man,**" she told House in a thick Russian accent. Her face suddenly lit up. "**Must be the _V_ilson!**"

Wilson glowered at her; _soft-looking_? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was this—this—_woman_ insulting him? What had House told her about him anyway? The smoldering in Wilson's chest became a flame. _Get your hands off him!_

"**I know we said no secrets but I think I have to take this alone, Honey**," House said to his fiancée. Wilson felt sick to his stomach hearing his normally bitter friend talk to that woman so sweetly.

"**Okay,**" Dominika replied easily, though she didn't appear to be all that pleased at being dismissed. She suddenly smiled and started to leave; on her way to the door she stopped next to Wilson. He had to admit she was beautiful. "**Nice been meeting you.**"

Wilson forced a smile and a good-humored chuckle; he'd be damned if he let on that her presence upset him. As soon as Dominika was out of the office and out of sight, the smile faded and Wilson approached House and snatched the cloth off his friend's face.

"**You're trying to screw with Cuddy!**" Wilson accused hoping that he was right and that all of this was simply revenge that no actual marriage would take place.

"**Yeeah,**" House drawled sarcastically, "**it's the classic 'you dumped me so I'm going to get married a week later ruse'—'cause not only is she that stupid but I know I'm that stupid.**"

That wasn't the reassuring answer Wilson had been hoping for; he desperately wanted to hear House say that this was all a joke.

Wilson thought quickly for something appropriate to say in response. "**Then what—you're openly mocking marriage, trying to prove it means nothing?**"

"**It doesn't,**" House responded in stride, "**but you proved that yourself years ago.**" He rose from the Eames chair and limped over to his desk, where he proceeded to sit down.

Hurt by the comment, Wilson gritted his teeth, trying to control himself and not say the hurtful retorts he wanted to throw back at House. He thought he'd proven with Amber and then Sam that his days of cheating on wives and girlfriends were over, that he really had changed, but obviously House hadn't noticed, or cared.

"**I'd love to keep guessing,**" Wilson said scornfully, trying hard to control his emotions, "**but I've got people with tumors waiting. Why do you want us to think that you're getting married?**" _Tell me, House!_ Wilson thought desperately.

House looked at him, a serious, meaningful look in his eyes. "**Only one theory left,**" he said. "**I am.**"

It was like a knife slicing into Wilson's heart to hear that.

"**Dominika needs a green card,**" House added quickly as he pulled a file out of his desk drawer. Was that regret in his eyes? Wilson thought he might have seen a flash of that emotion, but if so it had been so brief that he could have easily missed it—or imagined it altogether.

"**So you're just doing some random stranger a favor?**" Wilson asked dubiously, wanting to believe that was all it was but, knowing House as well as he did, he doubted it. "**It's illegal. People go to jail for that—pay _huge_ fines.**"

House looked at him like he was an idiot. "**Have you seen me practice medicine?**" he asked Wilson pointedly. "**Do you know how much it costs to have a live-in maid, personal assistant, cook, massage therapist, whore? I do,**" House told him. "**She's willing to work four days a week for free.**"

_I'd do that for you seven days a week for free,_ Wilson thought sadly.

"**It's going to save me about $33000.**" House stood to hand Wilson a prospectus from the file. "**And all I have to do is say two stupid words: 'I do.'**" He sat down again.

Wilson skimmed quickly over the pie and bar charts and other data, but he could barely read any of it. All he could see when he looked at the printed pages was House and his wife-slash-whore fucking in House's bed. He swallowed and tried to blink the mental image away without House noticing.

"**And if she doesn't see it this way?**" Wilson asked, his voice quavering ever so slightly. He hoped that House didn't notice.

"**Iron-clad pre-nup; we go our separate ways.**"

Wilson looked at him in disbelief. He couldn't be serious. This had to be a joke or, maybe, a nightmare.

"**Your stunned look,**" House said, smugly satisfied, "**I take it, is your way of saying 'Brilliant idea, House!'**"

He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head as if it should be obvious how genius the idea—and he—was. Wilson looked through the information in the prospectus again. It all seemed legitimate, like someone had taken this very seriously and had projected very real figures for a genuine business deal. There was no indication therein that this was anything but real.

Wilson looked back up at House to find that House's expression had changed; he no longer looked smug but, rather, slightly anxious. When brown eyes tried to gaze into blue to try to read House, the older man looked away, unable to maintain eye-contact.

"**_Brilliant_, House,**" Wilson told him stoically, his voice cold as he slammed the prospectus down on the desk in a display of his frustration and displeasure that fought with his steely disposition, wheeled around and strode out and away. He couldn't look at House any longer and keep himself from displaying the betrayal he felt. Wilson tried to force all of this out of his head for the time being—he had patients who needed his full attention and concentration right now. Later, when he was alone and had time for it, he would try to figure it all out, and plan what he was going to do next.

**~H/W~**

Wilson was on his way out that evening when he passed the clinic. He hadn't gone near House again, unable to look at him without wanting to either sucker punch him or grab him and pull him into a kiss. His confusion was driving Wilson crazy, and all he wanted was some time alone with a glass and a bottle of bourbon to think and drink himself to sleep. House's bizarre and self-destructive behavior was rubbing off on Wilson, as it usually did. He didn't know how much longer he could ride this rollercoaster before he had a complete breakdown.

He glanced toward Cuddy's office and saw her through her office door. She sat at her desk, staring off into middle space, looking very, very sad. In spite of the fact that he hated the way she had hurt House, he found himself sympathizing with her at that moment. Wilson knew better than anyone that House was able to hand out just as much hurt as he received.

Altering his course, Wilson was tempted to go to her office and comfort Cuddy, but he knew that was a temporary band-aid for the both of them. As painful as it was bound to be, Wilson instead headed back to the elevator and the fourth floor. He was going there on Cuddy's behalf, he lied to himself, not his own.

When Wilson reached House's office, he found the man seated behind his desk, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, reading a medical journal. God, House looked sexy in those glasses, Wilson thought longingly before mentally kicking himself. He was there to confront House on the way he was treating Cuddy, and lusting after his best friend was not going to help him accomplish his task. The fact that he could still taste House from their kiss the other night wasn't interfering with his resolve at all—oh, no.

He entered House's office. "**You two spent months trying to figure out a way to date and not have it affect your working relationship. Now you need to do the same thing for not dating.**"

House looked up at him. "**No, I don't.**"

Wilson frowned, wanting to shake House. "**This is serious. Did you know that she's—**"

"**She's dying of guilt and feels horrible for dumping me?**" House finished for him, interrupting. "**It's great. I mean, not the dumping part, but the part where she'll now let me do whatever I want.**"

Shaking his head, Wilson regarded House with disgust. Sometimes he wondered why he loved this man who could be so cruel and opportunistic. _Because you're no better, you just wrap it in a suit and tie, _he answered himself silently.

"**So you're just trying to punish her? She feels bad, and your only goal is to take advantage?**"

House regarded him with an expression of feigned offense. "**That's not true. I got plenty of goals." He removed his glasses and nodded at the bare space on the wall adjacent to his desk. "One of them is a 60-inch flat screen right there**."

Wilson sighed silently. What the hell else had he expected from him, the truth? That he was hurt and angry and seeking revenge? House may have professed to care for Wilson, but Wilson had no illusions about the fact that House was still in love with Cuddy and this was his way of responding to rejection. The callous way House was toying with Cuddy resonated with Wilson because he was treating him with the same callousness. Was House's coldness toward both Cuddy and him due to the emotionally numbing effect of Vicodin? Wilson looked closely at House's eyes; his pupils were pin-points despite the fact that the room was dimly-lit except for the desk lamp that House was looking away from. Yup—he was high. Perhaps that was the answer for everything that had happened that day.

Perhaps the only thing House truly loved anymore really _was_ the Vicodin.

Disappointment oozed out of Wilson's pores as he told House, "**You're a lot of things House, but you've never been a sadist. You're pummeling an opponent who isn't fighting back.**"

With that, Wilson walked out on him for the second time in one day but he only got halfway to the elevators before he returned again, rushed up to House's desk and pulled him to his feet with a force and speed that caught House off guard and left him speechless. He tried to free himself but Wilson wouldn't have it. Instead he pulled House against him and kissed him hard, showing him all of the frustration, confusion and hurt he was feeling as well as the love and lust Wilson couldn't push away. Just as House began to kiss back, Wilson broke the kiss.

"You son of a bitch," Wilson whispered, it sounding like a hiss; his eyes were misting over. "Don't you have any idea what you're doing t-to Cuddy—a-and to _me_?"

House stared him in the eye, his crystal blues unreadable.

Wilson released his grip on House and backed away, shaking his head. He left House behind again, only this time he didn't stop until he was home, sitting on his sofa in his living room, pouring three fingers of liquor into a crystal old fashioned. With trembling hands, Wilson gulped the fiery amber liquor. Sarah jumped up onto his lap, turned in a circle once and then settled down to sleep there. Wilson sighed and petted the cat's long, white fur, musing morosely that he should be combing his fingers through House's hair.

At that, he emptied his glass in one swallow and poured another.


	9. Chapter 9

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Nine

Wilson went to work with a killer hangover; for the entire drive to the hospital he wondered if he wouldn't have to stop the car in order to open the door and puke. He knew he'd been an idiot to get wasted on a work night, but it had helped him to deal with the pain. In fact, it had helped him with the pain most of the week, after going to work each day to see Dominika following House around like a bitch in heat and being completely ignored, in person and by phone, by the unlikely groom. He shook his head at himself and sighed; at this rate, if he wasn't more careful, he'd end up an alcoholic. What frightened him about that was that a huge part of him really didn't care anymore.

Except during patient rounds, Wilson kept much to himself in his office, pretending to be productive by completing paperwork, or appearing to, and seeing outpatient patients and referrals. He was a month behind in turning in his second quarter budget report and both Cuddy and the hospital's CFO had been on his case about it. He had planned on completing it last weekend but, well…that hadn't happened. When he went home from work each night, the only thing he wanted to do was somehow forget that House was marrying a brunette bombshell he claimed to have no feelings for, and had rejected him and was now avoiding Wilson. His revelation of his love for House seemed to be destroying their friendship after all. Wilson tried to remember to eat, but he had lost his appetite. That didn't help his gastritis, which was probably part of the reason for his lack of appetite in the first place.

By lunchtime and after a handful of Tylenol and a quart of water he was feeling much better. He was walking to the men's room when he met up with Chase and Masters carrying boxes of wedding decorations to the elevator. Wilson sighed, depressed and angry; he'd forced himself to block out the fact that it was Friday, wedding day for the man he loved and the green card-seeking bitch he was marrying. House had steered clear of Wilson after their encounter in his office Monday evening, though Wilson had been kept up to date with his friend's current case and his increasingly bizarre behavior. Wilson hadn't even felt left out when he learned that he'd been excluded from the wedding party in favor of House's team, who were behaving like it was perfectly normal for a man to marry a woman desperate to start a new life in a free country only to turn her into a sex slave.

"You're on the decorating committee for this sham?" Wilson asked the earliest and latest of minions on House's current team with a sigh.

"Just the manual labor," Chase told him with a shrug. He was so used to House's shenanigans by now that nothing his boss did seemed to faze him anymore. His blue eyes scanned Wilson analytically, reminding him of another set of scrutinizing blue eyes. The furrow of his brow indicated that Chase wasn't fooled by Wilson's attempt to appear nonchalant and hangover-free. "He and Dominika are decorating the chapel."

"You mean Dominika is decorating—House is 'supervising'," Masters said, rolling her eyes. "Dr. Wilson, doesn't it seem wrong to you that House is blatantly breaking the law and tainting the marriage union by marrying a woman as part of a business relationship rather than love?"

"It doesn't matter what I think, Masters," Wilson told her defeatedly. "House does what House does, no matter what."

"Well," she said, blowing her unruly bangs out of her eyes, "somebody should do something to stop this. Dr. Cuddy obviously isn't going to."

"Come on," Chase told her impatiently. He cast Wilson a knowing look then continued on his way to the elevator and Masters grudgingly followed. Wilson sighed in relief; Chase had been discreet enough not to say anything in front of Cuddy's spy. He continued on to the Men's room. After taking care of his business, he went to wash his hands at the sink, thinking about what the third-year medical student had said; _somebody should do something to stop this…._

Wilson agreed wholeheartedly. He dried his hands and then headed to Cuddy's office instead of returning to his. He knocked on her door. She looked up from her own pile of paperwork to see that it was him and waved him in.

Walking up to her desk, agitated by the entire situation, Wilson told her, "Lisa, you have to stop giving in to House's manipulations of the guilt you feel!"

With a sigh, Cuddy looked at him without argument.

"**He's gone too far. He's taking up six handicapped spaces with a monster truck!**" Wilson went on when he at first failed to spark a response from her.

"**It's only four and he's gonna get rid of it after the wedding,**" Cuddy assured him tiredly, frowning slightly. She appeared to have given up where House was concerned, and that only angered Wilson. If she didn't fight this, then he was all on his own in defusing House before he imploded, and Wilson didn't know if he was strong enough to square off against him alone. His conflicting emotions for the man made it hard for Wilson just to keep his sanity.

"**And the chapel… He's turned the chapel into his own personal catering hall,**" Wilson went on, hoping that pointing out something that directly affected her hospital would wake up her ire. He'd miscalculated.

"**Who cares? Other than a janitor sleeping off a bender, he's the first person to use it in two weeks.**"

Had Cuddy stopped caring about House and his behavior because she never really had cared about House as much as she had claimed to, or because she was trying to spare herself the kind of anxiety and frustration Wilson was experiencing? Wilson didn't know, but he wished she would give a damn now.

"**Appeasement is never the answer in the face of naked aggression,**" Wilson advised her drily, pointing at her. "**It won't be long before his tanks are rolling down your _Champs-Elysees_.**"

Cuddy gave him a look that indicated she thought Wilson was losing his marbles, too. "**I know what _House_ is doing. _You_, on the other hand… why do _you_ care? He isn't hurting anyone.**"

_Liar,_ Wilson thought. Then again, maybe this didn't hurt Cuddy as much as he thought it would. Regardless, House _was_ hurting someone: House—and _him_. The hurt Wilson was experiencing was nearly unbearable. Was this what House had gone through with each of Wilson's relationships? If so, then it explained a _lot_. He walked to one of the chairs in front of her desk and sat down, folding his arms over his chest. Obviously, he was going to have to play to the Dean's giant ego to motivate her.

"**You're the first boss he's ever had who could handle him,**" Wilson insisted. As much as that was a good thing, it also meant that House had a respect for her that he obviously didn't have for Wilson; he hated to admit it, but it was true. "**Before you, he was either fired or buried under a mountain of malpractice suits. He needs someone to say no. He needs someone he'll listen to, when they say no. If you really care about House, you'll stop feeling sorry for him and get out there and start kicking him where he needs kicking.**" _Before I lose him to Dominika and Vicodin for good, _Wilson added silently.

That apparently hit the mark. Cuddy nodded in agreement. "**Okay. You're right—he's using me like a tool and I have to put an end to it. I'll take care of this, James. There will be no wedding in my hospital tonight—and that TV he ordered at the hospital's expense is going back too.**"

Sighing silently in relief, Wilson allowed himself a small smile and a mental pat on the back. That put an end to Dominika becoming the first Mrs. Gregory House, at least for tonight. It gave Wilson time to come up with a plan that would get rid of the Russian whore from House's life for good. Was House right about him? Wilson wondered. _Was_ he a manipulative bitch?

_Damned fucking right I am,_ Wilson thought with a mental smirk.

**~H/W~**

What neither Cuddy nor House knew was that Wilson had kept an eye out on Cuddy and had followed her to the chapel when she went there after their meeting in her office. Wilson didn't want Cuddy to know that he was playing her or for House to find out he was behind Cuddy's decision to intervene in this obscene wedding. He stood just outside the entrance to the place of prayer where he couldn't be seen but he could hear everything that went down within.

"**I changed my mind,**" Wilson could hear Cuddy tell House.

"**What, you want the fish instead of the chicken?**" House quipped.

"**This room is for patients' families, not for doctors trying to defraud the government.**"

_Atta girl, Cuddy,_ Wilson silently cheered. _You tell him!_

"**Oh, so… you've decided to take a _moral_ stand,**" House surmised, an edge to his voice forming.

"**Yeah. The chapel still has sanctity for some people,**" Cuddy told him firmly.

House became sarcastic. "**You're right. I think I saw Blue the janitor passed out in one of the pews last week.**"

"**It's 'Lou,'**" Cuddy corrected, "**and I would have thrown him out too.**"

"**Well, where are we gonna go? We got caterers staging everything downstairs as we speak. We've got floral arrangements, place settings… Other wedding-y stuff.**" House sounded like he was trying to remain casual but underneath that was beginning to feel uncomfortable and uncertain.

Wilson recognized that undertone, and a small part of him sympathized with House's plight—but only a very small part. No one was going to marry House but _him_, if it ever came to the point where House would want to marry.

"**That's not my problem.**"

"**I sent out the invitations. People are coming _here_,**" House insisted.

"**That's also not my problem,**" Cuddy told House. Wilson could hear her turn on her heal and walk towards the door; this was his cue to make himself scarce, but before he did he heard her add, "**And I want the TV back.**"

Wilson ducked into the alcove surrounding a nearby doorway, narrowly missing being seen by the Dean, who strode out of the chapel confidently with a smug little smile on her lips—the first real smile Wilson had seen on her face since the break-up. Instinctively Wilson hated seeing Cuddy have the upper hand over House, but it this case it was necessary and best for House in the long run.

With a sigh of relief, temporary as it might be, Wilson returned to his office.

**~H/W~**

A knock at his office door broke Wilson's concentration and he looked up from his computer. It obviously wasn't House because he would have simply barged in and flopped down in one of the chairs before Wilson's desk. It wasn't Wilson's P.A. because she would have called him rather than come up from her office one floor down. He didn't have any more patient appointments for the day.

Curiously, he said, "Come in."

The door opened, and Dominika stood there, smiling amiably. She stepped inside.

"Forgive for disturbing you, Dr. _V_ilson," she said thickly but sweetly. "I would like being speaking to you, _pozhalyooistah_?"*

The last thing Wilson wanted was to talk with her, but he tried to remember that she was having her desperation to leave oppression used for House's selfish purposes. With a silent sigh, Wilson forced a smile and nodded.

"Of course, Dominika," he told her pleasantly. "Why don't you shut the door and have a seat?"

The woman shut the door but didn't sit down. She did walk up to Wilson's desk, plant the flat of her hands on its surface and leaned in closer to him. The smile on her face disappeared, replaced by a look of pure menace.

Wilson was stunned, and that was only amplified by the way her imperfect English suddenly became fluent with a thin Russian accent rather than the thick one she'd been using with everyone else.

"I know that you do not like me, Dr. _V_ilson," she said quietly, but her tone was steely. "I also know that you oppose my marriage to House, but I haven't figured out exactly why yet. We both know you convinced Cuddy to deny us use of hospital property to hold the wedding."

Wilson's smile faded, and a suspicious scowl replaced it. "I don't know who you are or what your agenda is, but House is my best friend and I'm trying to protect him from himself and anyone else with the intention of harming him in any way. Marrying you so you can get a green card is illegal and could land House in prison. I won't stand by and let that happen."

"Hmm," she said thoughtfully, crossing her arms over her chest, "I wonder what House would think if he found out you are the reason we had to make last minute plans to move the wedding to his—_our_—apartment tonight. It has been a thorn in his side having to call everybody he invited to inform them of the change of venue."

Nervously, Wilson swallowed hard but otherwise managed to hide the dread he felt of House's reaction should he find out. "Go ahead, tell him," he told her with bravado. He hoped calling her bluff wouldn't end up biting him in the ass. "We look out for each other all the time."

"Well, it doesn't really matter now," Dominika informed him with a wicked little smile. "The wedding is still going ahead tonight as planned whether you like it or not. So why don't you be a good best friend and show up tonight to show support for our nuptials."

"I have no intention of supporting this sham," Wilson told her, frowning.

"Dr. _V_ilson," Dominika said, taking his tie in her hand and playing with it for a few moments before yanking on it, catching Wilson off guard and pulling him over his desk so that his face was only inches from hers. At such close proximity he could see that her beauty was only cosmetic –deep. Underneath the carefully painted façade of her was pure ugly. "You have no idea who you are dealing with, but trust me, you do not want to cross me. If you do, you will live to regret it—but take heart: you wouldn't live long. If you tell House about this conversation I will tell him that you came on to me and are making up lies about me because I wouldn't fuck you behind his back. Who do you think he will believe—an innocent Russian peasant girl seeking asylum in this country, or a man renowned for his cheating ways and womanizing?"

"Are you threatening me, Dominika?" Wilson asked her, feeling chills run up and down his spine but hiding that admirably from her.

She smiled, ran a finger across her lipstick-laden lips and then smeared it on Wilson's collar. She yanked harder on his tie and hissed, "I don't threaten—I _warn_. Don't fuck with me or you won't live to fuck with anybody else. If you're smart and you don't want anything to harm you or House, you'll listen to me."

She released his tie. Wilson's hand went to his throat to loosen it before he asphyxiated, swallowing painfully where she had nearly crushed his windpipe.

Dominika straightened up, pressed her clothing with her hands, smoothing out any wrinkles that may have formed, and then headed to the door and opened it. She paused long enough before leaving to smile sweetly again and say loudly enough for anyone passing by in the corridor to hear, "Hoping to be seeing you, Dr. _V_ilson tonight at _vw_edding. Bye."

Wilson watched her shut the office door behind her, amazed at how quickly she could transform herself from blushing bride to vicious bitch and then back to bride so quickly and smoothly. One thing Wilson was certain of—Dominika was a sociopath whom Wilson needed to keep House from marrying, though it was looking more and more unlikely that he was going to be able to accomplish that. His best friend was about to marry himself his worst enemy, perhaps without even knowing it.

This was truly a waking nightmare.

******* пожалуйста:** Russian for 'please', pronounced _po-_zhal_-yoo-IS-tah_. This was what a Russian-speaking friend told me is the correct word. If I've erred, I apologize. I speak a little Ukrainian thanks to my Baba, and in Ukrainian the word is **прошу, **pronounced PROH-shoo (the 'r' sound has a rolling of the tongue sound).


	10. Chapter 10

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Ten

Wilson was on his way out of the hospital for the evening, still debating whether or not he wanted to attend House's wedding. He stopped by his best friend's office to tell him about Dominika's threats, hoping that would lead him to cancel the wedding, but House had left early to finish final preparations for the ceremony and reception after. Instead he saw Chase in House's office leaving a file folder on his boss's desk.

"House already left?" Wilson asked, mainly because Chase had spotted him and he had to say something. He already knew that House was gone.

"Yeah," Chase agreed. "Big night tonight." He said it flippantly, bringing an involuntary smile to Wilson's face. "I get to officiate."

Wilson frowned at that. "I didn't know you had your license to marry people?"

Chase shrugged. "House arranged for me to have a temporary license, good for just today. He figures that since I couldn't hack it as a priest I'd make the perfect official to conduct his mockery of a ceremony. You're attending, right?"

"I…don't know," Wilson answered slowly. "I don't know if I can watch this farce."

"I'm going for the horny women," Chase said bluntly, smirking. "Weddings do something to them."

"Yeah, I've noticed that," Wilson acknowledged, smiling slightly. "Unfortunately, at most of the weddings I've been to I've either been dating someone or I was the groom."

"House will be pissed if you don't show," the Australian warned him.

"Frankly,' Wilson replied with more bitterness than he'd intended to reveal, "I doubt he'd even notice, and if he did, he wouldn't give a damn."

Leveling a look at Wilson, Chase appeared to be reading him like a book, which made the older of the two of them uncomfortable.

"Is that why you've been drinking so much?" Chase asked him. "Don't deny it—you've come to work hung-over every day this week except Monday. I seem to recall you telling me you didn't have a problem."

Wilson really felt uncomfortable now and wanted to tell Chase to mind his own business but when he noted that there was no condemnation in his eyes, only concern, the oncologist relaxed a little.

"Look," Chase continued, "I realize that it's none of my business, but if you're drinking because of House's relapse and crazy behavior then maybe you need to…let him go. Quit worrying about him and thinking that it's your responsibility to protect him from himself. He's dragging himself down by his Vicodin and alcohol use and crazy stunts—don't let him drag you down with him; 'cause where I see him going, you don't want to go. My mother started drinking when things blew up between her and my father. It started out as occasional overdrinking but she ended up a full-blown alcoholic and died from it with I was still quite young. I know what it looks like from beginning to end…and I'm seeing signs of it with you."

"Thanks for your concern," Wilson told him, making to leave, "but it's not a problem for me. I'm fine; gotta go."

"Wilson."

His name was said with an intensity that he couldn't help but stop and look back.

"Yeah?"

"I've been around the longest of everyone on House's team—even Foreman," Chase told him. "I'm not blind. I know how much House means to you…_and_ how much you mean to him. Why don't you just tell him the truth about how you feel?"

Wilson felt his cheeks grow hot; had he been that obvious of late that Chase—and perhaps others—had pick up on his feelings for House? Well, it didn't really matter anymore, he supposed. Nothing would come of any of it—House had told him so.

"I…have," Wilson admitted, astounded by his sudden honesty to someone other than House. "He…doesn't want to reciprocate."

His face screwing up in confusion, Chase asked, "'doesn't _want_ to reciprocate'? What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means…exactly how it sounds," Wilson answered quietly, setting his jaw. "Good evening, Chase."

Before the younger doctor could come up with further questions, Wilson turned and strode away to the elevator.

**~H/W~**

In typical House fashion he had one of his epiphanies and cured the dysosmic homeless man named Danny just in time for his wedding. After the disturbing visit Dominika had paid him earlier Wilson had tried to get a hold of House and warn him about what had happened before she could tell his best friend any of her lies. Attempts to get a hold of House by phone or by page had failed as well. That had decided it for Wilson; he still didn't want to attend that sham but wondered if he shouldn't if only to stop House from making a huge mistake—perhaps the biggest of his life.

After that, Wilson had drunk two shots of bourbon immediately. Maybe Chase was right; maybe he _did_ have a problem. Maybe he should disown House and run away; the thing was, he'd tried to do that once before but hadn't been able to. Wilson simply couldn't escape his love for him. Before he could pour a third his home phone rang. He hoped that it was House returning his call, but upon seeing the call display he was disappointed to discover that it was Cuddy calling him instead.

To Wilson's surprise, Cuddy had decided that she would go to the wedding service and offered to pick him up. Why in hell she wanted to subject herself to that, Wilson didn't know. All the same, he sensed that she really didn't want to go alone and wanted him to go with her for moral support. Like usual, Wilson decided her need was more important than his and agreed to go with her. He allowed her to drive as she had planned because by the time she arrived there forty-five minutes later Wilson had already drunk his third shot and was pouring his fourth, which he downed before they were out the door.

"Started to celebrate a little early, James?" Cuddy asked him, glancing sidelong at him as she drove. It was starting to rain and the sound of the large droplets falling from the sky striking the car sounded melodic to Wilson—or was that just the booze?

He shrugged sheepishly. "I had a stiff drink when I got home," he told her half-truthfully. "There's no way I could face this…this travesty otherwise."

She didn't say anything more about it but after Chase's little speech earlier Wilson felt self-conscious.

When they arrived the wedding was just about to begin. House's little apartment had been transformed into what looked like a semi-respectable Vegas Strip wedding chapel and was packed to capacity. Extra folding chairs had been brought in but there hadn't been enough so Wilson and Cuddy found themselves standing in the back. At first he had been surprised at the number of people who had shown up for House's wedding; the diagnostician didn't exactly have a lot of friends and most of his medical colleagues didn't like him. It occurred to Wilson that many of those who had shown up had probably come like people flocking to a travelling sideshow used to—in order to see an unexpected oddity take place with their own eyes. The rest were probably from the bride's side.

"I've got to talk some sense into him," Wilson murmured to Cuddy, and took a step forward just as the music began to play, announcing the arrival of the bride and her procession. Cuddy took Wilson's arm and squeezed it reassuringly.

"He's an adult, legally," Cuddy whispered to him with a sad smile. "You can't protect him if he's hell-bent on destroying himself, James. You should know that by now."

Wilson saw the hurt in Cuddy's eyes and in the deepened lines on her forehead and around her mouth. She physically mirrored what was going on inside of him. He felt her grasp his hand and squeeze it, then simply hold it and not let go. He squeezed back comfortingly. She was right, and Wilson hated it.

Seeing House standing with his team, beaming happily as Dominika approached made Wilson want to vomit right then and there; it hurt him to his core and frightened him to know that House was tying himself to the same woman who had done a fairly good job intimidating Wilson just a few hours ago

_Hold it together, James,_ he told himself harshly when his eyes became misty. _Don't give House or that bitch the satisfaction of knowing that your heart is tearing in two._

Chase began the ceremony with: "**They say true love doesn't exist anymore. Maybe it never did. So without further ado…**" He handed the ring to House, who passed his cane over to Foreman in order to have both hands free. Wilson imagined himself standing there instead of Dominika, only that ceremony would be real, the grooms would love each other, truly desiring to spend their lives together until death parted them—the culmination of twenty years of dancing around the truth and semi-serious flirtation.

House slid the wedding ring onto Dominika's slim finger as Chase spoke. "**Do you, Dominika Petrova, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?**"

She looked House in the eye, baring the same fangs she'd shown Wilson earlier, only this time in the form of a smile. "**I do.**"

Wilson's stomach flipped, and he nearly vomited into his mouth. What?—no opportunity to object, to stop this from taking place? Chase went straight to the meat and potatoes—probably because House had anticipated that someone—namely, _him_—would object and hadn't wanted to give anyone the chance.

He felt Cuddy release her hold on his hand and begin to move away, weaving slowly through the other guests to get out of the living room. Wilson looked after her and then glanced up at House. The groom's inscrutable eyes were following Cuddy out of the room as well.

"**And do you, Gregory House, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?**" Chase continued, oblivious to the fact that something was happening. Dominika slid a wedding band onto House's finger.

House tore his eyes from Cuddy and as they moved to look at Chase they brushed Wilson's gaze.

"**Yep,**" was his simple response.

"**Then by the power vested in me by the state of New Jersey just for today,**" Chase proclaimed, "**I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.**"

House smiled and didn't hesitate to lean in and kiss Dominika passionately, earning sounds of applause from those attending. Wilson clapped out of habit before catching himself and stopping. He had to look away, unable to watch it any further. Cuddy had had the right idea, he decided.

As pictures of the bride and groom were being taken, Wilson made his escape, following the same route Cuddy had. He found her sitting on the edge of House's bed, facing away from the door. Wilson didn't hear any evidence of tears, but her shoulders were slumped and she looked miserable all the same. She wasn't alone in that feeling. Wilson approached and sat down next to her.

"**It's okay. I'm just, angry at myself. I promised I wouldn't let this get to me. But it got to me,**" Cuddy admitted quietly.

"**Just say the word and we will climb out that window right now,**" Wilson told her with a gentle smile. He was only half-joking, really; he didn't want to be forced to watch House and Dominika together, happily celebrating their nuptials with their guests.

Cuddy cast him a sideways glance and scoffed, "**I wouldn't give House the satisfaction.**"

Wilson couldn't help but smile at that. For a second there he saw the old Cuddy again, the one he'd known before this romantic drama between House and her had begun, the one who he'd liked and had been his good friend; he realized how much he'd missed that woman, and the relative simplicity of that time.

"**You see? Things are getting back to normal,"** Wilson told her encouragingly despite the fact that he was just as discouraged as she was, if not more so. There was no such thing as normal when it came to being associated with House.

Cuddy sighed. "**Yeah… normal.**"

The meaning of her tone of voice was not lost on Wilson. Back to the drugs, the self-destruction, the insanity, the hurtful sarcasm and repression and worry; the nightmares of receiving a phone call declaring that House had killed himself, either on purpose or accidentally.

Swallowing hard at the lump forming in his throat, Wilson put an arm around Cuddy's shoulders and squeezed comfortingly; he wasn't certain if contact was meant to encourage Cuddy, or himself.

"Let's get out of here," he suggested. Cuddy looked at him again and nodded. He rose from the bed and offered her his hand. She forced a smile onto her face and accepted the hand up, though she certainly hadn't needed it. "Are you hungry? I could definitely eat. My treat."

She shook her head as they walked down the corridor toward the noisy living room.

"I just want to go home."

Wilson nodded understandingly. He had lied about being able to eat. All he wanted to do was drink. They walked with their heads held high through the living room to the front door, past the partiers. Wilson felt someone grab his forearm and he looked back to see that it was House. He held a half-empty scotch bottle in his hand, pie-eyed already.

"Hey, where are you two going?" House asked them, slurring slightly. "The party's just started!"

Wilson pulled his arm free of House's grasp and turned to Cuddy. "Lisa, why don't you go to the car? I'll be right down."

She nodded appreciatively, and left the apartment.

"Fine thing," House declared, frowning. "A guy gets married and his best friend and ex-lover can't wait to leave."

Wilson scowled at him, his fists clenching and unclenching. He found himself in that same quandary—punch or kiss. "You're unbelievable," Wilson hissed instead.

"Thank you," House retorted, smirking drunkenly. He leaned in, leering at Wilson and whispering in his ear. "You know, I was thinking that since this marriage is a _very_ open one, if you want, we can sneak back to the bedroom for a few minutes and I can make you scream that in ecstasy? Make your dreams come true?"

Wilson pushed him away, earning a surprised glare. "You really don't care how much you hurt either one of us, do you?"

Before he could say anything more, Wilson turned and left the apartment, slamming the door hard behind him. He leaned against the door, still able to hear the party within. Tears pricked at his eyes and threatened to fall. For House to taunt him like that—!

Wilson forced himself out to the car and climbed into the passenger's seat. Cuddy started the car and they were off, headed to the loft to drop him off. He was silent for most of the drive, afraid to speak for fear of his voice breaking and betraying his true feelings to the woman sitting beside him. She had enough of her own pain to deal with—she didn't need to be burdened with his as well. If Cuddy noticed that something was wrong, she didn't show it. When she pulled up in front of his condo building Wilson noticed a black luxury sedan with darkly tinted windows sitting parked in the loading zone just ahead of them. It looked oddly out of place there, somehow.

"Try to relax and forget about this for now, James," Cuddy told him softly. "I know I'm going to. I'll see you Monday."

_Maybe,_ Wilson thought as he stepped out of her car, but verbally replied, "Yep, Monday. Lisa—you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine, James," she assured him, her blue-grey eyes searching his suddenly. "I'm not sure I can say the same thing for you. What did House say to you after I went to the car?"

"Garbage," Wilson replied, unable to hide the hurt in his voice any longer. "He was four sheets to the wind already and not making any sense. I don't know if I can go on much longer like this, Lisa."

"So don't," she advised him, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. "You can't keep this up, you're allowing him to drag you to destruction with him. Maybe it really is time to just let him go to whatever it is he's heading for."

"Cut ties and save myself while I still can?" Wilson asked her bitterly, actual tears now forming.

Cuddy sighed and shrugged.

"I can't," he told her simply.

Staring at him with inquiring eyes for a moment longer, Cuddy then nodded understandingly before driving away.

Wilson rubbed the tears out of his eyes angrily, then walked past the strange car, the hair on the back of his neck rising as he did. He shook his head at his own paranoia. As soon as he was in his loft he went straight to the fridge and grabbed a beer. He twisted off the cap and guzzled it down.


	11. Chapter 11

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Eleven

Wilson didn't see or hear from House for another three days, supposedly because he and Dominika were taking a three day weekend for their honeymoon. It wasn't until Tuesday morning that he found out House hadn't been with his new bride but rather Dr. Remy Hadley, gone for a year on a mysterious leave of absence, in Schenectady for the annual spud gun competition House entered every year. From House's team Wilson learned that Dominika had gone to Atlantic City with her boyfriend and House had somehow come across the doctor better known as Thirteen and had dragged her along instead. Usually House tried to convince Wilson to join him but never successfully because Wilson had been either married or involved and his significant others had not wanted him to go. He'd always told House it was because he thought the whole event was stupid so his friend wouldn't go into a rant about how Wilson was allowing the women in his life to control him.

He probably wouldn't have gone with House this year, either, if he'd been asked, but for entirely different reasons. Instead, Wilson spent the weekend drunk—but more carefully so than the last time. This time he'd been certain to drink as much water as he did booze to ward off dehydration. There had been no need to call Chase over again. Monday morning he showed up at work on time and worked a full day, not allowing his hangover to keep him from doing his job.

His plan for the evening had been to indulge in a liquid dinner and drag his ass to bed to pass out. That was cut short by the knock on the loft door. Wilson had only had five beers, a relatively dry evening these days, but he was shuffling a bit when he answered the door; he was beginning to wonder if he was even completely sobering out between binges anymore. Strangely he wasn't surprised to see House standing there. Chase had confronted him again at the hospital about his drinking, and this time Wilson had told him to back off and mind his own damned business. Obviously Chase had squealed to House again.

Without a word, Wilson turned his back on him and staggered a little back into the living room. He heard House enter and close the front door. Wilson dropped onto the sofa and stared at the TV. In front of him on the coffee table were several empties. He hadn't bothered to clean up much from his weekend.

"When you get yourself a beer, grab another for me," Wilson slurred slightly without looking at House.

"So is this your new weekend routine?" House asked him, nodding at the empties. He took off his leather jacket and tossed it onto the armchair then sat down on the sofa next to Wilson. As the younger man went to take another pull off of the beer he currently had—number five was it, or six?-House snatched it from his hand and set it down onto the table with more force than was necessary.

Wilson refused to meet his scrutinizing gaze, opting to continue watching "Paranormal State" on the tube instead. His vision was blurred and doubled every so often, so actually being able to pay attention to the show was next to impossible.

"What I choose to do with my time is none of your business," he told House flatly. "Why aren't you home with the missus fuckin' her into the mattress? Does she have a headache?"

"Don't change the subject," House told him sternly. "How many have you had since you got home tonight?"

"Not enough," Wilson answered defiantly, looking at House out of the corner of his eye, "especially if you plan on sticking around here instead of going home to Mrs. House." It made Wilson nauseous just to hear Dominika called that.

House shook his head at that, frowning. "I told you, Wilson, this is nothing more than a business arrangement. She doesn't mean anything to me."

"Well with Dominika that now makes two of us—make that three and add Cuddy to the list as well," Wilson said, sighing. God, how he wanted to hate House just then, but he couldn't. No matter what lousy things House did or said Wilson simply couldn't stop loving him, wanting him. House was _his_ Vicodin, _his_ poison, and he wouldn't stop taking him until he was dead. Wilson sat forward and reached for his beer but House picked up off the table and surprised Wilson by throwing it angrily across the room. It hit the wall just behind the organ, sending beer and shattered glass everywhere.

"No more!" House shouted. "From what I hear you've done nothing _but _drink since the wedding!"

"Chase needs to keep his nose in his own business and shut the hell up!" Wilson growled, folding his arms across his chest.

"Chase wasn't the one who spoke to me about it," House informed him, his eyes flashing with fear and frustration. "Cuddy called me and reamed me out for driving you to drink. She's worried you're having a breakdown."

Wilson got up from the sofa and headed to the kitchen. He opened a cupboard and pulled out a partial bottle of scotch and two glasses. He poured at least three fingers worth into one. "Want one?" He offered stiffly.

He was purposefully not watching House, so when Wilson raised his glass to his mouth and took a deep swallow he was shocked by House's hand grabbing it and throwing it violently into the sink, shattering it as well. How had he got up from the sofa and made it to the kitchen that quickly, with his bad leg, without Wilson even noticing? House grabbed the scotch bottle, visibly winced when he saw the label, that it was good fifteen-year single malt, and began to dump the liquor down the drain. Wilson grabbed the bottle as well, trying to wrest it from House's grasp. It was like a tug of war between the two of them before Wilson was able to grab the bottle free, but ended up flying backward into the counter and cabinets behind him. He lost his footing, slid on spilt scotch, and hit his head on the refrigerator. He was stunned by the blow before he landed on the floor.

The grey fog that filled his head began to clear and slowly he became aware of where he was. The face of his best friend stared down at him, frowning. House had found Wilson's medical bag and began flashing a penlight in his eyes. It was déjà-vu. Instinctively Wilson turned his head away from the light, swatting weakly at the source. He felt House firmly but painlessly grab his flailing arms and set them down on the floor on either side of him. Wilson tried to sit up, but when he did he began seeing snow obscure his vision. He felt a hand down slap his cheek just hard enough for it to sting.

"Wilson, I know you're there," House told him, his voice sounding distant. "Come on, wake up!" Another slap was all it took to bring him completely to. His eyes fluttered open. House was sitting on the tiled kitchen floor next to him, looking down at him with frightened eyes and a furrowed brow. When his face came into focus, and Wilson met his eyes, House visibly relaxed some. Wilson tried to remember what had happened to land him unconscious on the floor but his brain still felt a little sluggish. When he remembered, he tried to sit up again only to have House place his hand in the middle of his chest and hold him down.

"Lie still," he told Wilson quietly. "Give it a couple of minutes."

"I'm fine," Wilson told him, feeling like an idiot for knocking himself out like that, but he didn't fight him on it.

"Your pupils were slow to react," House told him. "Could be the alcohol, or you could have a concussion. Tell me what my name is."

Wilson looked at him questioningly. Why the hell would he be telling him to do that? "House."

"My _full_ name," House clarified. It took Wilson for a moment to answer.

"Doctor…Greg—Gregory House," Wilson replied. "Why are you asking me—?"

"It's a neuro check, idiot," House told him, but his voice was gentle. "What's your name?"

"Dr. James Wilson," he answered with more certainty.

"What year is it?"

"Twenty-eleven?"

"Are you asking me or are you telling me?" House replied.

"Both?"

House smiled slightly at that. "How old are you?"

"Eighty-six," Wilson replied with a cock-eyed grin. "Oh, sorry, I thought you asked me how old I _feel_. Forty-three…I think. House, can I get up from here? This hard floor isn't great for my back."

"Slowly," House agreed. Wilson picked himself up off the floor about as quickly as House got up; neither of them broke any speed records. Wilson's hip hurt where he'd hit it against the counter and lower cabinets before he'd slipped and hit his head. He could stand and walk easily enough, but he figured that if he were to check the tender area, he would find it bruising nicely. The same was true with his head. He felt the tender spot and found a goose egg. He hissed at the way it stung. All in all, he got off pretty lightly as far as injuries were concerned. That is, so long as he didn't have more than a minor concussion; he couldn't tell for certain, considering he was drunk, after all. His thought processes were still sluggish, he'd been stunned nearly senseless for at least a few seconds, and he felt a little dizzy now that he was on his feet but it wasn't bad...

"Whoa—hey!" House said, grabbing Wilson's arm to steady him. The younger of the two had begun to lean precariously like he was going to fall over. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Wilson assured him, "but I'll be better sitting down."

"I'm taking you to the ER," House told him firmly. "You should have your head X-rayed and maybe even scanned, to be safe."

"Since when are you the worry-wart?" Wilson asked him, slightly irritated. He was a doctor, he knew that he would be fine, that all he needed was to sit or lie down and take it easy, take some aspirin for his headache, maybe.

"Since we're talking about you," House answered bluntly. They stared at each other for a long moment, searching each other's eyes for—what? Wilson didn't know what House was looking for, but Wilson was looking for some kind of indication that his friend might be changing his mind about moving their relationship to a more intimate level. Unfortunately, House's eyes told him nothing, and Wilson wasn't certain if that was due to his rattled, drunken brain or to House's ability to hide his true thoughts and feelings.

"I'm just drunk. If I have a concussion, it's a mild one. I wasn't knocked completely out," Wilson assured him. "I just need to lie down in my bed."

With that he headed in that direction, stumbling over his own feet once. Wilson was about to shut his bedroom door when House stopped him, standing right behind him. "If you're not going to the hospital then I'm sticking around here to make certain you don't go to sleep and never wake up," House told him firmly.

A feeling of warmth, though temporary, filled Wilson's chest at this display of concern. He was still furious and hurt by House's actions of late, but it was good to know that the older man still cared a little about his well-being. He hadn't completely destroyed their friendship by revealing his feelings for House.

"Fine," Wilson told him, heading for his bathroom, "you can sleep on the couch—that is, if Dominika doesn't mind. I really don't need her storming into my office and threatening me again."

"Wait!" House called to him before Wilson could close the bathroom door. Wilson turned to face him; House's eyes had widened, not only from surprise but also anxiety. "Dominika threatened you? When was this?"

Wilson sighed, wondering if House would even believe him if he told him the truth. "She came to see me in my office Friday afternoon, after Cuddy nixed your use of the chapel for the ceremony. At first she played her poor little Russian peasant girl with the huge language barrier act but as soon as my office door was shut she turned on me and told me that she knew I was behind Cuddy's decision and that if I interfered between the two of you again I would suffer a dramatically shortened life and a painful death. She spoke perfect English and only had the slightest accent.

"I tried to get ahold of you after that but you'd left the hospital early and weren't answering your phones. Did I encourage Cuddy to kick the wedding out of the chapel? Yeah, 'cause I knew it was a mistake that I didn't want you to make…but that hardly deserves the raking over the coals I got from your wife. She told me that if I told you about her visit she would claim I hit on her, was rejected, and was therefore telling you lies about her and that you'd believe her. So who's right, House? Do you believe me, or don't you?"

House stared at him, dumbfounded, which was a rare thing for the man. He couldn't seem to find his voice and Wilson didn't feel like waiting. He went into his bathroom and slammed the door shut behind him, immediately sorry that he did. It caused his dull headache to greatly intensify. He locked the door.

"Hey," House called through the door. "If you're going to be in there alone, keep the door unlocked so I can get to you if you decide to pass out with a brain hemorrhage."

Wilson sighed, unlocked the door, and then went back to getting ready for bed. When he emerged again, he found House lying on his bed, waiting for him. Unfortunately, he was still wearing his boxers to sleep in but everything else had been shed.

Wilson stared at him, nonplused. He felt himself begin to harden just seeing House lying there on his bed in nothing but his underwear; apparently he hadn't had quite enough alcohol to cause him the usual impotence he suffered when drunk. "Wh-what are you doing?" he asked, stammering slightly.

House looked up at him and smiled slightly. "I can't keep an eye on you if I'm out there and you're in here. I've set your alarm clock and I'll be waking you every hour tonight to make certain you don't slip into a coma—it's easier on my leg if I'm in here to do it. It's this or the ER, take your pick."

"B-but what about D-Dominika—?"

House rolled his eyes as he interrupted Wilson. "I told you Wilson, we're married in name only. It's a business arrangement. She gets her green card and I get a maid, masseuse, cook—"

"And whore," Wilson finished for him, not even trying to hide his bitterness at this point.

"No," House answered, shaking his head. "We could have consummated our marriage our wedding night—Dominika seemed quite willing—but I didn't want to. We haven't, and I can't see us doing so in the future."

He looked sincere, but Wilson wasn't certain that he could believe him—and so what if he did? How did that change anything between them? All it went to prove was that House was still in love with Cuddy, not _him_.

"And I didn't know about the threats," House told him softly. "I promise you, it won't happen again."

Wilson sighed, approaching the bed and sitting down on the edge, facing his best friend. "I don't care about that, really. I just…do you _really_ know what you've gotten yourself into here, marrying that woman? It's obvious she is not who she tries to project herself as being, and that can only be bad news for you, not good."

"I can handle Dominika," House assured him. "Stop worrying about me."

"Then you stop worrying about me," Wilson threw back.

A hint of a sad smile lit House's cerulean eyes, warming them. "Can't do that, not as long as you're bound and determined to drink yourself to an early death."

"Not gonna happen until you stop torturing yourself, risking your life, and taking Vicodin," Wilson mimicked.

House sighed, and their eyes locked again. Wilson could see the affection in House's eyes, the longing that Wilson felt for him being reciprocated. Ever so slightly, Wilson inched closer to House, then a little closer. House made no move to stop him. Desperately, Wilson wanted to kiss him, but was afraid that doing so would push House away again. He couldn't risk that…could he?

"Well," Wilson said with a sigh, standing slowly and walking over to the other side of the bed, "I guess we should get some sleep." He slipped off his clothes down to an undershirt and boxers as well, climbed in, pulled the bedding up around him, and turned off the lamp, leaving them in darkness. He lay in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, wishing he could curl himself around House and fall asleep in the other man's arms. "Good night, House."

"No forcing yourself on me while I'm sleeping," House responded quietly. "See you in an hour, Wilson."

Every hour on the hour until four a.m. House woke Wilson from his sleep to make certain he still could rouse him up. By the time four came along, House must have felt comfortable enough that Wilson was going to be alright that he didn't wake Wilson again.

Both men slept until noon, when Wilson awoke first.

His head was resting on House's shoulder, his face toward his friend's neck. House's left arm was somewhere under and around Wilson and his right one was draped across Wilson's chest. Wilson's arm was wrapped around House as well, his left leg draped over House's. He didn't remember moving to that position while they slept, but Wilson didn't mind it at all. He had no idea how House would react if he woke at that moment to find himself cuddling with his male best friend. Perhaps he would like it too—after all, House may have said no to a relationship with Wilson that night at the hotel, but he had also willingly and wantonly kissed Wilson back and had begun to kiss him back the other night in his office.

One thing was certain: Wilson had no intention of moving out of House's embrace until he absolutely had to. It felt too damned good, natural, like they should sleep that way every night for the rest of their lives. His protesting bladder and headache could wait.

_If only,_ Wilson thought sadly. House had made that clear…but that didn't mean Wilson wouldn't keep trying. Somehow, someday, he and House would be together. With that he mind, he dozed off again for a little while until he felt House stir slightly. Wilson woke immediately, realizing House was waking up, and carefully extricated himself from his friend's arms, immediately missing the physical contact and intimacy. He went to the bathroom to pee and take a couple of aspirin to fight his headache and then gulped down two extra glasses of water to stave off the effects of dehydration. Surprisingly he felt relatively alert for having a hangover plus a knock on the head and there was no dizziness. Since it was so late in the day, Wilson anticipated Cuddy's displeasure with him not showing up for work; he called the hospital to discover that House had already called in at some point and convinced Cuddy to give them both the day off. Relaxing, he returned to bed.

Propping himself up on his elbow, Wilson looked down at his best friend, admiring his long, angular face, thick eyelashes, broad forehead and square chin. How was it he had taken so long to admit to himself that he loved that face? His heart fluttered every time he saw it and soared when he received one of House's rare but beautiful smiles. He found himself hardening just looking at him.

He wished he could kiss the permanent furrow from House's brow, and then allow his lips to brush their way down the bridge of his nose, stopping to kiss the tip. Next would be kisses on each eyelid, along his cheekbones and jaw line before finally caressing House's lips with his own…

"You drool on me and I'll suture your mouth shut," House muttered without opening his eyes.

"I agreed I wouldn't force myself on you," Wilson told him, surprised that House managed to fool him into believing that he was still sleeping. "I said nothing about looking at you."

His eyelids fluttering open, House looked up at Wilson. There was affection in those blue orbs.

"You're never going to let up, are you?"

Wilson shook his head slightly. "I can't, not anymore. Not when I know you love me, too."

"I've never said that," House countered, raising a brow.

"You've spoken with your actions," Wilson replied. "Actions are louder than words, remember?"

House sighed softly. "It will be a huge mistake."

"Maybe," Wilson acknowledged, not convinced of that, "or maybe it will be the first right thing we've done since you bailed me out of that New Orleans jail. Listen, if we're honest with each other, it will work. If…if it doesn't work, we stop. It will be a little awkward for a while, but we _can_ remain friends. People do remain friends even after a relationship ends—but this _won't_ fail. House, we've been dating for twenty years. We've fought, we've tried to walk away, but we keep coming back. That's not going to change, no matter how hard we try to make it."

A hint of a smile ghosted over House's lips. "I knew you wouldn't be able to control yourself if we shared a bed."

"Guilty as charged," Wilson murmured, "but isn't that why _you_ decided to sleep in here instead of on the couch. You were _hoping_ that I would make a move on you…." He slowly lowered his face toward House's and then gently kissed him, his eyes closing just before contact.

"Manipulative bitch," House whispered against his mouth before kissing back.

"Certifiable bastard," Wilson returned, saying it as if it were a sweet nothing whispered into his ear; for the two of them, it was; it was part of the unique form of foreplay they had been engaged in for decades.

They kissed gently but with passion, expressing emotions that were too intense to properly define with words. Wilson pulled the comforter down to expose House's chest, then toyed with the smattering of graying hair there. It was so different from touching a woman and yet somehow much more erotic. It had been so long since he'd enjoyed the intimacy of another man…

House moaned softly into Wilson's mouth in appreciation. Long-fingered hands came to rest on Wilson's hips, caressing in a circular motion before finding the waistband of his boxers. Two thumbs hooked themselves over said waistband and began to lower the boxers over Wilson's hips, past the buttocks and the quickly growing mound on the flipside. A whimper left Wilson as the cloth and elastic rubbed against his sensitive cock. He helped House remove the underwear completely and then kicked them out of the way. House's hands now had direct access to rove over Wilson's round, bare ass cheeks. He began to massage the gluteals sensuously, pulling Wilson closer. His hands felt like flame, burning pleasurably through Wilson's muscle, bone and fat to his pelvis; his cock continued to harden against House's hip.

Their kissing became deeper, more passionate, and greedier. Wilson tickled House's lower lip with the tip of his tongue and House not only opened his mouth but plunged his tongue deeply into Wilson's mouth before he could do so to him. It became a battle in their mouths for dominance and was so hot that Wilson began to hum, his breathing becoming faster, more uneven. House, too, was becoming hard as his hands roamed over Wilson's back and buttocks. Wilson was still supporting part of his weight on his right elbow while using the hand on the other arm to caress and roam House's torso. He found one of House's nipples and rubbed it between his fingers until it was erect and hypersensitive. He then pinched the nipple hard, causing House to gasp in both pleasure and pain and thrust his pelvis upward involuntarily.

With a growl deep in his throat, House's mouth left Wilson's and moved to the sweet spot just behind his ear. He scraped his teeth against Wilson creamy white skin, smiling at the way Wilson's breath caught. From there House began to leave open mouthed kisses along Wilson's carotid, feeling his pulse beat fast and hard beneath his tongue.

"Oh, god!" Wilson gasped, electric pleasure starting from where House's mouth ministered to his neck spreading like fire along every nerve, over every synapse, to his spine and then up to his brain and down to his cock. Wilson's hand moved south, over House's lean body, caressing over his sensitive side, hip and then to his member. Wilson nearly went crazy with desire when his hand came to rest on the sizeable mound beneath his friend's underwear.

"Those...have _got_ to...go," Wilson said between gasps. House nodded in agreement, unwilling to stop what he was doing with his mouth to speak. Making quick work of removing House's shorts he then began to lightly caress his cock.

"A-Ahh!" House cried softly against his skin. "Jimmy…"

Wilson grinned. "You like that, Greg? You want more of that? Or should I stop?"

"No," House breathed, "no, don't stop!" He lifted his hips in an effort to increase the amount of friction of Wilson's hand on him. "Uh…more…"

"I'm sorry," Wilson said as his mouth kissed its way down House's neck toward his chest and his hand stilled, "I didn't catch that. Did you say…no more?"

"Fucking…tease," House growled, his voice husky with desire. "We'll see about that!"

Before Wilson knew what was happening, House grabbed him and rolled him onto his back so that he was on top supporting his weight on his good leg. House flipped the covers off of the bed so that he could take a good look at man below him. He nearly tore Wilson's shirt off of him and then began to suckle on one of Wilson's nipples while using his fingers to deal with the other. At the same time he began to grind his erection against Wilson's, causing them both to cry out in delight.

Along with the physical pleasure he was feeling, Wilson was filled with a sense of joy, unable to fully believe that he was finally making love with the man he'd been in love with for years. Every touch, every kiss, every bit of friction threatened to make his heart explode along with other parts of his anatomy.

Talking ceased as both lost the ability to think of more than seeking satisfaction for their insatiable need for more and thrilling at providing for the need of their partner, moving ever closer to climax. Both were beyond the point of no return, too enthralled in worship of each other's bodies to even consider stopping. Twenty years of pent-up sexual tension, desire, and a love that had always been a little more than platonic between them, drove them towards the desperately sought inevitable conclusion. The only sounds were primal vocalizations: gasps, growls, moans and cries, murmurs of unintelligible encouragement and delight.

House became zealot as he grabbed both of their members with his hand and began to stroke them quickly.

The increased friction made them both cry out again. Wilson was on the aching edge, teetering when he heard House whine, "Jimmy! I can't hold—a-ah…I—!"

That was all Wilson needed to push him off the edge, but instead of plummeting he felt like he had launched into the clouds and was soaring in the ecstasy of his orgasm. It wasn't just an experience of the body but of his heart and soul as well. When Wilson came, shooting thick ropes of hot, sticky cum all over the both of them, his cry caused House to climax and explosively ejaculate as well.

Afterward, they simply lay there, silently holding each other in their bliss, and Wilson fell back to sleep, a smile lacing his lips.


	12. Chapter 12

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**A/N 2:** Hopefully this isn't too OOC; I just felt they needed to have a little chat despite House's aversion to it.

**Back Story**

Chapter Twelve

When Wilson opened his eyes again, two alert cobalt eyes were studying his face and long, tapered fingers played gently in the dark hair on his chest. House was propped up on his elbow beside him; he must have felt a draft because a sheet now covered the both of them. Wilson smiled up at him and received a rare smile of affection in return.

"We're complete fools," House murmured indulgently. Wilson nodded lazily, reaching up to cup House's prickly face and caress his cheekbone with a thumb.

"Maybe, but right now I really don't care," Wilson murmured with a lazy grin. "Tell me—do you really regret taking this step?"

"Not yet," House admitted. "Talk to me a few months down the line after you've given up on me and walked away."

"Never gonna happen," Wilson said without hesitation. "You don't have to take my word for it—I'll prove it to you. I need to know, though…can you let go of Cuddy and focus on us? Or is there going to be three of us in this relationship?"

With an eyebrow cocking and a smirk touching House's lips, he quipped, "You know, that could be interesting—!"

"Dream on," Wilson told him, shaking his head. There was no way he was going to share House with _anyone_. House was his now—all his.

"Letting go is hard," House admitted, sobering. "She took and took and refused to give, then sucker punched me. I'm not in love with her, Jimmy. I was just another Lucas that she got bored with and then searched for reasons to dump me, finally finding one she could half-way justify—and I thought I had commitment issues."

"I told you there's a lot of anger bottled up inside of you," Wilson told him, "but talking like this is good. Telling me this is a positive step—you need to keep doing this."

"Doing this only reminds me what an idiot I was to think she could every really accept me," House answered, shaking his head. "That's not something I want to continue to remember. Enough about Cuddy; we've got better things we could be doing than talking about her."

House leaned in and kissed Wilson deeply, bringing a moan out of him.

Their mouths parted but their foreheads touched.

"I never expected you to want another man. I've only ever known you to be attracted to women," Wilson said softly. "Not that I'm complaining."

"More pillow talk?" House whined. "You're worse than Cuddy."

"It's up to you," Wilson told him simply.

House shrugged. Why not? He needed some time to recover before he was up for the next round anyway. "I prefer women in general, but I've never discriminated when the person and timing was right. When I met you in New Orleans, I wanted to fuck you. It wasn't love at first sight but at the same time…I knew that no other dude would ever match up to you so I didn't bother looking anymore. If I couldn't have you, I could go the rest of my life just fine without fucking another guy. I didn't acknowledge to myself that I'd…fallen for you until you quit at the hospital and left after Amber died. Since I never thought you would be interested, and I was…concerned that if you knew the truth you'd beat the shit out of me and tell me not to come near you ever again, I never felt it was necessary to tell you."

"You make it sound like you've been beaten for being bisexual before," Wilson noted, frowning slightly.

House glanced away for a moment. "I was twenty," he explained. "A junior in college. My parents arrived at my dorm room without telling me in advance about their visit. A guy from my organic chemistry class and I were fucking when they just barged in. The other guy took off like bat out of hell when he saw John in his military fatigues and service pistol holstered around his waist looking like he was about to take out two enemy combatants. He sent Mom back to the car—I remember her telling him to calm down before he did something he'd later regret. Trust me, John was always in perfect control and the asshole didn't know the meaning of regret. I was still looking for my underwear to throw on when he pistol-whipped me. When I returned to my senses he was standing over me with a look of disgust and disappointment and told me that he'd always known I was a fruit but now he had the proof of what a disgrace I was. He threw in that I'd devastated Mom and had shamed the family name before I told him to get the fuck out of my life."

"I don't think your mother thinks you're a disgrace," Wilson assured him, thinking back to the handful of times he'd been in contact with Blythe House and they had talked about her son. "And it's been well established that your father was a good-for-nothing prick. I shouldn't have agreed with your mother to force you to go to his funeral! The only good thing that came out of that was that I realized there was no way I could ever escape your pull on me."

"That _was_ a plus," House agreed, kissing Wilson briefly but tenderly again. "Mom was always more tolerant than Dad, but I wouldn't say she was happy to learn that her son liked to fuck men. She was elated when I called her to tell her that Stacy and I had moved in together. It wasn't marriage like she had hoped, but at least I was with a woman. We've never talked about my sexual preferences and that suits me just fine."

"Wow," Wilson said softly, marveling, "I think this is the most you told me about yourself in one sitting in the past twenty years."

"It's the endorphins," House retorted. "Worse than Vicodin for messing with my head."

"And better for you," Wilson told him with a gentle smile.

"Your parents ever find out?" House asked him, obviously steering the conversation away from his Vicodin use but Wilson was in too good of a mood to pursue it for the present.

Wilson shook his head, his brow furrowing slightly. "No, I was very careful to hide from them the fact that I liked men a lot more than I did women. In fact, I've only been with women because there were no men I was attracted to available to me and I needed to keep up the façade both for the family name and for my career. I hated the fact that I was different and I've battled with myself since puberty over my sexuality and have overcompensated. I convinced myself that I was better off living a normal, traditional life that would make my parents proud; that meant being a good Jewish son who was a straight professional in a promising career, married to a beautiful woman, bonus points if she was Jewish, and building the all-American family."

"Gee," House teased, "What a shocker. Jimmy, your parents should have made your middle name 'Denial', not Evan. Except, then you would have ended up with boring initials on all of your towels."

Wilson half-shrugged and smiled self-deprecatingly at that. "Yeah, well my carefully constructed lie to myself began to crumble the minute I met you and only got worse from there. I was both jealous and glad when you hooked up with Stacy because having you clearly unavailable made it easier on me to reject the notion that there could ever be anything between us but she had you and I…didn't. When the infarction happened and you drove Stacy away I panicked, especially when you needed my help as intensely as you did. I didn't mind helping you—you were my best friend and I loved you—but it didn't aid me in deceiving myself either.

"I guess I knew the end was near when I was dating Amber and you made that brilliant observation that dating her was like my dating you."

"It was obvious transference," House stated.

"Maybe," Wilson grudgingly agreed, "but you didn't have to point it out and turn my life upside down. Besides, she shared a lot of traits with you, but she wasn't you, Greg. She was her own person and I really did love her for her. Of course, I couldn't help but love you at the same time. I still can't believe I asked you to risk your life to save hers. I nearly lost both people I loved because of my selfishness and stupidity. Looking at you was a reminder to me of how much of a bastard I was for doing that to you…but, I guess we've already dealt with that."

"Yeah," House said, nodding. "I knew for certain that it was…it was love…when I watched you donate a lobe of your liver to that jerk. I guess…I guess that's why I was more pissed with you for pushing me away when Sam snatched you into her talons for the second time than I was with any of your other women. I was being relegated to the back of the shelf…again."

Wilson was silent for a moment or two before saying, "You were always first—that's why I had to push you away and create distance between us. It was the only way I could convince myself that I loved _them_. It didn't work for long…I'd become dissatisfied and cheat; looking for something to keep me from telling you that I loved you. In the end…I always came back to you because it was the only thing that felt right. I never meant to hurt you."

"You did," House whispered, "but I didn't have the balls to tell you. Now I get it."

Wilson pressed his lips against House's; they had just apologized and forgiven each other without having to say the words.

"So," Wilson told himafter withdrawing from the kiss to breathe, grasping one of House's hands and lacing their fingers together. He kissed House's hand, earning a half-smile for it. "Why did you hook up with Cuddy—besides her T and A? I thought after everything with her and Lucas you had gotten past her."

Exhaling loudly, House nodded and began, speaking softly and deliberately as recalled that day months before. "It was pretty intense at the disaster site; I'd just found out for the first time that morning that Lucas and Cuddy were getting married. I was pissed that she was no longer going to be there as my plan B. Dating her would assure that I wouldn't be left alone and on the outside again when you decided to remarry the harpy and she succeeded in destroying our friendship. Nolan suggested that you were like a consolation prize because I couldn't have Cuddy but he had it completely backwards. She was the booby prize—and yes, I _do_ intend the pun.

"Cuddy was bitchy all day, complaining about everything everyone around her did, but she focused her venom on me. Hannah wanted to keep her leg; Cuddy and the search and rescue chief wanted to chop it off like it was a skin tag or something inconsequential to save time and make things easier on themselves. I defended Hannah's right to decide what her medical fate was going to be."

"Because you weren't offered the same right with your leg," Wilson said softly. It was all falling into place, all of House's anger and angst, his frustration and fear and pain. He wished he could have protected House from it all but how could he have when he was the main cause of it?

House nodded. "Above ground Cuddy laid into me about defending Hannah's choice just to spite her and that's when I blew. What a prima donna, thinking that I would knowingly sacrifice that woman's life just to piss _her_ off! She accused me of being stuck and…that she and Lucas, and you and Sam, were, like normal people, moving on with your lives and leaving me behind."

Wilson was incensed. "She what? House, I'd never leave you be—"

"Let me finish," House told him quietly, interrupting his lover. "She was right. I _was_ stuck, a loser, an addict, a jerk, and it all had turned south when I was put out cold and the decisions over my own body were taken from my hands. Stacy signed on the dotted line, but Cuddy encouraged her to do it and set the release down in front of her and handed her a pen. I know you agreed with what they did in principle."

Wilson looked away briefly, uncertain about how House felt about that. "I didn't want you to die."

House told him. "I know that. If I'd known that at the time things would have been different between us but after all this time, I understand." He kissed Wilson's forehead. "After that, I changed. I was wrong, people _do_ change, and I was the prime example of that—but people don't change just because they want to and in the way they want to. They change when there's no escape but through the keyhole and life fucking squishes and crushes them to fit through it no matter how painful that might be. It was obscene for me to continue giving Hannah false hope about keeping her leg when it meant she could die. It was just a fucking leg. I've pissed away my life because I couldn't get that concept through my head all these years.

"Anyway, time ran out. There was no longer any way to prevent crush syndrome from taking hold. I had to convince her that there were no longer any choices but amputation or death. Cuddy insisted on being there to make certain I didn't fuck it up somehow—she always has to have her nose in my business. She heard me tell Hannah that if I could do it all again I would allow them to amputate my leg rather than live like I have ever since and that she could still look forward to a bright future because it was just a leg. I guess something about what I said got Cuddy wet in the panties. I amputated Hannah's leg and it went like textbook. She was lifted out of there pronto and I rode with her and her husband back to the hospital."

"Then the fat embolism hit," Wilson finished softly. He kissed House's hand again. "It wasn't your fault."

"I know," House said, nodding. "That's the point. I did everything right and things still turned to shit. That's when I realized that it wouldn't have mattered whether I'd had my leg amputated or not—life was fucked, the universe was a torture chamber and no matter what I did I would always end up in the same place I was at that moment. I didn't want to exist in a world of horrors where the consequences to everything that I did, good or bad, were hell on earth. I went home to kill myself. It wasn't until I actually had the pills in my hands that I hesitated."

That revelation caused Wilson's blood to run cold. He'd had no idea how close he came to losing House that night until now and the fact that House hadn't succeeded was the only thing that kept Wilson from freaking out. Subconsciously he tightened his grip on House's hand.

"Where did you get the Vicodin?" Wilson asked. "I searched every inch of your apartment while you were in rehab—"

House sighed. "After Tritter had raided my place and confiscated my stash and reserves I dug a hole in the sheet rock behind my bathroom mirror and stuck two bottles of Vicodin in there for safe keeping. Then I covered it with the mirror mounted flush to the wall. I grabbed the bottles then sat on the floor.

"That's when I heard someone unlock the front door to my apartment and step inside. I thought that it had to be you since you were the only person, I thought, with a spare key. Alvie took off with the spare above the door. I thought that maybe…maybe you cared about me after all and had come to tell me that Sam was history and that you wanted me, loved me. When I saw it was Cuddy…Jimmy, she was offering me a chance not to die alone a bitter, lonely man in his bathroom from a Vicodin overdose. How could I not cling to that for dear life?"

Wilson's key for House's apartment had been missing from his keychain when he went to check on House the next day; he'd suspected Sam of getting rid of it, but now he realized _where_ it had gone, if not _how_. That's why he'd had to try to climb in House's kitchen window the morning after House and Cuddy had hooked up. But how had she managed to get it? He should have been angry at Cuddy for somehow pilfering his key without him knowing, but he wasn't. The pain and loneliness in House's story left Wilson feeling ashamed of his past behavior and almost glad that Cuddy had gone to House that night and by doing so prevented House's suicide. Wilson was infuriated with himself. He should have been the one to check up on him, to tell him that he loved him.

"You did what you had to do to survive," Wilson acknowledged, "no thanks to me. House, I'm sorry I let you down."

Shaking his head, the diagnostician leaned down and kissed each of Wilson's eyelids in turn, picking up the tears that had formed there. "You're here with me now. That's what matters. It's insanity, but we'll make it work somehow."

"This is the first sane thing I've done since I allowed you to convince me to go straight from jail to that strip club…?"

"Chez Pierre's," House reminded him, grinning. "The ugliest women and most watered down booze in Louisiana."

"For being watered down, it got me drunk enough!" Wilson chuckled. "I barely remember what happened for the rest of that evening, though I do remember waking up on the floor of the bathroom in your hotel room."

"I must have passed out before you did," House replied," because I don't recall that. Then again, you never have been able to hold your liquor." When Wilson blushed slightly at that, House sobered slightly, his eyes sparking in a way that made Wilson suddenly feel very warm. "I don't want that to change. You've got to stop with the binge drinking. Your liver still isn't 100%. Pickling it is counter-indicated. Detoxing from alcohol isn't a party, either."

"I'm _not_ an alcoholic," Wilson protested but House placed a finger gently across his lips for a moment, silencing him.

"Not yet."

"And the Vicodin?" Wilson pointed out, trying to steer the focus away from him.

"I…I'm working on it," House answered, glancing away from him momentarily. "I have a plan…you have to be patient with me." Changing the subject: "You're hot when you blush."

Wilson murmured, feeling a stirring in his loins again. "You mean all this time, every time you made me blush you were turned on?"

"Why do you think I did it?" House grinned and then kissed him, ending all discussion. As House had said before…there were much better things to be doing than talking, and he was more than ready now to be doing them.


	13. Chapter 13

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Thirteen

It wasn't long before they were a tangled mess of arms and limbs and sucking, kissing, biting mouths again. They lit each other on fire, driving each other into deeper arousal and need. Wilson was impressed with House's ability to be ready again so soon, particularly at his age, and reminded himself about the Viagra. God bless that little blue pill—!

"Jimmy," House panted into his ear, "top or bottom?"

Wilson didn't care so long as he was with House. He blurted the first one to enter his mind.

"B-bottom."

"Lube?"

"Bedside table…drawer…"

House found the tube quickly enough, obviously eager to be inside of Wilson.

"I'll…ride…Easier on your—u-uh!—leg…"

House smiled, rolled his eyes, "Bleeding heart."

"Reckless moron," Wilson shot back as House squeezed lube into his hand and then rubbed it between his palms to warm it. House moved to lie on his back, legs spread slightly, red, raging cock twitching and bobbing with each heartbeat. He spread a generous amount around Wilson's opening, causing him to hiss in anticipation and rear up against House's hand. One finger at a time, House slowly and tenderly prepared Wilson for penetration. It was uncomfortable at first—it had been a long time since he last took it up the ass—but muscle memory and House's gentleness and caution helped him to soon adjust until pain eased into pleasure. When House carefully scissored his fingers inside of him, Wilson moaned and pushed down on the digits, signaling that he was ready to rock and roll.

Wilson situated himself on top of House, one hand on the headboard to steady himself as he slowly positioned his opening over House's cock and then bit by bit lowered himself onto the tip. House bucked involuntarily upon contact but then got a hold of himself and managed to lie still. He verbally encouraged Wilson until the latter had completely taken House in. Perspiration ran down from Wilson's brow to splash onto the pillow next to his lover's head. It wasn't so much painful for him as it was overwhelming. He felt completely stretched out by House's length and girth. Shivers ran through him.

"Oh god, Jimmy," House murmured, "so good…"

A groan from Wilson indicated that he was enjoying it as well. To be so close, connected, filled with the man he loved more than anyone or anything else…it brought tears to his eyes that he didn't bother trying to blink back.

Wilson began to move slowly, rising and then plunging, just a little at first as he adjusted and the pain faded mostly away, leaving pleasure. Soon he was pulling away until just the head was inside before coming down quick to completely envelop House again. House met him with thrusts of his own and they rocked like that in perfect synchronicity, moaning and hissing and keening softly. Wilson was delirious with delight, leaning down to kiss House deeply on the mouth or suck on his collar or whisper "I love you" into his ear. House wasn't quiet about his pleasure either and he even murmured the four letter L-word once.

A conflict was taking place inside of Wilson: the desire for this intimacy and bliss to never end versus his body's urgent need to be satisfied, to reach orgasm. He became louder with his cries the closer he came. Animalistic growls paired with desperate whimpers escaped House. Though his mind wasn't really working House did manage to think to grasp Wilson's cock and begin stroking him in time with their rocking. The faster and more urgent it became, the fast the stroking. They found the perfect angle where the head of House's penis grazed his partner's prostate with nearly every thrust.

Wilson was keening, now, unable to believe how incredible this was, his heart pounding so hard and fast that he wondered fleetingly if he wasn't going to arrest before he climaxed. Both men were slick with sweat; pre-cum lubricated both hand and cock. House bit down on Wilson's shoulder in excitement, hard enough to break the skin, but his partner barely noticed.

House's thrusts became irregular at that point and a moment later he climaxed, crying out Wilson's nickname as he shot liquid heat inside of him. Wilson came at almost the exact same time, shooting his seed all over his lover's hand, belly and chest. He came harder than he had earlier, reveling in the feeling of being filled to overflowing. Wilson literally collapsed onto House, having lost all strength in his body. House's arms remained wrapped around him, holding him securely, possessively. Both panted unevenly, their hearts pounding as they rode out their orgasms together.

Later, after they had both returned to their senses, Wilson left House's embrace long enough to grab a couple of warm, damp washcloths and a towel and lovingly cleaned House up before taking care of himself, then drying them with the soft, fluffy towel. House watched him indulgently as this was taking place, a contented smile on his face that softened the deep furrows in his brow and made him look ten years younger. Wilson returned the facecloths and towel to the bathroom and then returned to cuddle up to his lover.

They lay in silence for a minute or two before House asked quietly, "Jimmy, do you trust me?"

Wilson opened a lazy brown eye. "That's a loaded question if ever I heard one."

"Yeah," House acknowledged, nodding. "I'm going to be honest with you about something that you cannot breathe a word of to another human being—_ever_. We can't even openly talk about it between ourselves after this."

Wilson frowned, feeling a chill run down his spine.

"Greg, you're worrying me."

"Good," his partner told him. "It'll keep you on your toes. After I tell you this you may change your mind about ever having anything to do with me again, much less being my lover."

Wilson couldn't imagine anything House could possibly tell him to make him feel that way.

"If you're in trouble, we'll face it together," Wilson assured him. "What's going on?"

House took a moment before he began. "I owe some very dangerous, powerful people a favor and they're calling it in. If I don't do what they say I won't live to see my next birthday. I don't want to tell you any more detail than I absolutely must because the more you know, the more dangerous it is for you, not because I'm trying to deceive you. I wouldn't be surprised if they aren't already surveilling you because you're my best friend. If they find out we're lovers, you'll be in even more jeopardy and I do not want that to happen."

"Who are these people? Are you expected to do anything illegal?"

"I can't tell you—"

"Bullshit," Wilson cut him off. "You can. You can trust me. I want to help you and you're not going to 'protect me' by shutting me out of what is going on with you. If you won't tell me then I'll find out for myself!"

"Jimmy, no…," House sighed, closing his eyes briefly.

"Tell me!"

House leaned in and kissed him instead, then rested his forehead against Wilson's.

"These people have their hands in everything: politics, international finance, intelligence, and organized crime just to name a few," House whispered resignedly. "Before I even knew you I allowed them to help me with a sticky situation not knowing who exactly I was _really_ dealing with. They told me that there may come a day when they would need my assistance and if so, they would be in touch. Very recently they paid me a call. They have a VIP in need of my diagnostic abilities, but no one can know that this person is ill or that I'm involved in anyway. These people mean business, James. I don't want anything to happen to you. There's no way you can help me but to play along and roll with things. Some unexpected events may happen and I may do some questionable things over the next couple of months; I won't be able to explain everything to you and warn you before they happen."

"Like marrying Dominika," Wilson concluded, gathering together pieces to the puzzle he'd been wrestling with. "Is she one of these people?"

House hesitated for a long moment before giving in with an audible sigh and a nod. "She's my handler, one of their operatives brought in to give me instructions and messages from her superiors and to keep an eye on me to make certain I don't break the rules or otherwise fuck-up. Because she's my watchdog she has to be around me—a lot. They decided that the best way to make that happen without attracting the wrong kind of attention would be to have us get 'married'. The green card deal was all a cover story for the people I associate the most closely with. She doesn't need a green card—she can go anywhere she wants, everywhere she wants, with impunity while working for them. I doubt her real name even is Dominika Petrova; her real identity is probably top secret.

"I should have told you from the start, but I didn't want to get you involved in this mess I've gotten myself into."

Wilson was convinced that this, finally, was the truth coming from House, and he recognized the unspoken apology. The idea that House was involved in this kind of political intrigue and the danger associated with it scared Wilson, and he needed to know more.

"Greg, we should go to the authorities—the police, or the FBI—"

"These guys control the FBI, and the CIA—hell, they may even have the President on their payroll. Who knows?" House told him starkly. "Their contacts and resources are practically limitless. There is no one to run to for help. I have to honor my debt—that's the only way they'll leave me alone."

Wilson searched his best friend's eyes for any hint of insanity if such a thing could be seen. There was something about the clarity he saw there that told him that House was perfectly sane, and that was what was so terrifying about this. "Until the next time they want something from you," Wilson told him.

Shrugging, House caressed Wilson's cheek with the back of his fingers gently. "I don't think so. They have this code of honor…it's crazy, and makes no sense to a rational person but they abide by it religiously. If I do what they say, they'll leave me—us—alone. I don't know enough to be of any real danger to them, anyway—but they wouldn't think twice about hurting you to pressure or punish me. The best thing—the _only_ thing—I can do right now is to do as they say, not ask any more questions than absolutely necessary, and do what I can to protect you."

"I'm terrified for you," Wilson whispered after swallowing hard.

House was quiet for a while, staring deeply into Wilson's eyes and saying more that way than he ever could verbally.

"The best thing you can do to help me is to keep your mouth shut about this—not a word to _anyone_—and play along with whatever happens. Like I said, I may not be able to warn you or explain to you what is going on. Just trust me and don't jump to conclusions concerning the things I do…and don't stop loving me." The last part he said in a whisper.

"There's no worry of that happening; I couldn't if I tried. Promise me you'll be careful," Wilson insisted, "and that you will tell me what you can, when you can."

House kissed him again. "I will," he promised. House caressed Wilson's face. Wilson pressed into his touch hungrily. "But you need to stop binge drinking like this. You'll end up killing yourself this way."

"That's a bit hypocritical," Wilson told him, smirking. "all things considered."

A twinkle appeared in House's eye, and he smiled slightly as he released Wilson and sat back. For his part, Wilson watched him suspiciously, wondering what it was his best friend had hidden up his sleeve now. Reaching over the edge of the bed to pick up his discarded jeans, search the pocket and produce a pill bottle; he shook it. The offensive Vicodin tablets inside rattled almost tauntingly. House opened the lid.

"Give me your hand."

"Why?"

"Just _do_ it," House answered, exasperated. Hesitantly Wilson held out his hand. House gently took it and turned it so that it was palms-up. He dumped a pill into the palm of Wilson's hand. Wilson looked at the pill and then back at House, confused.

"Put it in your mouth," House commanded.

"No!" Wilson responded, completely baffled. "I'm not going to take Vicodin so that we can get high together and share the experience!"

"That's not why—just…just trust me, idiot!" House sputtered, rolling his eyes. "I'm trying to prove something to you here. You don't have to _swallow_ it. Just bite it and hold it in your mouth a moment. Then you can spit it out. Just _do_ it already!"

Wilson realized that House wouldn't let this go until he did it, so reluctantly he put the pill into his mouth and bit into it, expecting the horribly bitter taste of the pain killer. Instead, he was greeted with subtle sweetness. Wilson's eyes widened in amazement, and spit it out into his hand to take a better look at the two pieces of tablet.

"A placebo?" Wilson wondered, shaking his head. "You've been taking sugar pills this entire time?"

"The Vicodin I took when Cuddy was sick was real," he confessed, "as were the three I took the evening after she came by to break-up with me. I suffered an auditory hallucination that night—my father's voice telling me that I was a loser who should kill me before I destroyed everyone around me. After that I realized that I couldn't go back to the way things had been when I was taking Vicodin full-force. Losing Cuddy wasn't worth losing my mind again. That's when I was visited by Dominika about repaying my debt. I knew I had to keep my wits about me, so I forced myself to detox again. It was unpleasant, but the worst of it only lasted about a day and wasn't nearly as grueling as I'd anticipated. I kept up the ruse of being back on Vicodin to try to cover for some of the strange behaviors and activities I was being forced into, and taking these placebos instead of the real thing."

Wilson wanted to believe him so badly. "But I've seen other physiological manifestations—!"

House smiled. "You mean like my pin-point pupils? I've been using special ophthalmologic drops Dominika gave me. A couple of them dropped into each eye and my world gets darker. A few from another bottle and my pupils open again. I forgot to bring them with me—they're literally in my other pants. If you want, I can find your godson's mug and provide another urine sample for you—but only if you promise to have it tested under a pseudonym—I have to protect my low-life image."

"I've been worried sick about you and you never thought once about letting me in on the secret?" Wilson exclaimed. "I've been having nightmares of finding you as a crumpled heap on the floor, dead from an overdose! Do you know how inconsider—"

"Jimmy, shut up." House kissed him, his long-fingered hands pulling him into an embrace. Wilson brought his arms up and wrapped them around House.

When they parted, Wilson gave House a frown of consternation. "You really have to stop silencing me like that."

House grinned, his hands sliding over Wilson's flanks toward his hips. "You need to stop lecturing me. Besides, do you _really_ want me to stop kissing you?"

"There are better reasons for kissing me," Wilson told him softly; he leaned in and took the initiative this time, pressing his mouth against House's and kissing him hard. He pulled back, leaving them both panting and wanting more. "I guess I'm causing you to cheat on your wife."

"I think," House said between nibbles on the soft flesh behind Wilson's ear, "having a homicidal sociopath secret agent…for a phony wife makes this case a…definite exception to the rule."

"Yeah…but Greg, legally she is still your wife."

"Actually, she's not," House told him. "Do you honestly think…the State of New Jersey would license Chase…for _one day_ so he could marry Dominika and me? Mm, you taste so good! Jimmy, I thought you were smarter than that."

Wilson remembered secretly questioning Chase's qualifications just before the ceremony but had pushed that concern to the back of his mind, having more pressing matters to concern him. Now, he felt foolish for not cluing in. However, that meant that Chase…

"Okay," Wilson admitted, blushing, "you've got me there…but that would mean that you had to let Chase in on the secret."

House was sucking gently on Wilson's right jaw, making it very difficult for the latter to think straight.

"Hmm? Mm…need to know…only told him I was pulling an…elaborate prank to…win a bet. The…bookie in him…couldn't resist…that, and the $500 I gave him," House answered against Wilson's skin. His moving lips and the brush of his whiskers were delightfully irritating. Wilson found his own hands sliding down House's flanks. House's breath caught in his throat at the skin on skin contact, the warmth of Wilson's hand sliding up his abdomen to his well-developed pectorals. "He won't rat me out…since he knows I have some…dirt on him, too, if it came to that. Fuck all this talking…no more…."

Wilson gently pushed House back so he could meet his eyes. House's flamed with lust, his pupils dilated, no eye drops involved. "What kind of bizarre behaviors can I expect coming up, and how will I know that they're just an act?"

"Can't we continue this conversation _later_?" House whined, but stopped when he saw Wilson's determined look and set jaw. He huffed in exasperation. "I'll continue 'spiraling' out of control, allowing my hurt and anger to consume me. These people want me to completely discredit myself with everyone in my real-life so that I'll have more time to concentrate on diagnosing and treating their boss without raising suspicion. What all that entails I don't exactly know yet. What you need to know right now is that we have to be very careful about being together like this from now on. Dominika can't catch on to our relationship, Jimmy. Both of our lives depend on it remaining secret until this all blows over. When it's not just the two of us outside the hospital, like this, you have to forget that we are lovers and continue acting like you believe I'm losing it over being dumped by Cuddy, that my addiction is getting worse, and lecture me like you usually do—or better yet, behave like you've disowned me."

"I don't lecture you that mu—!" Wilson began to protest but he was quickly cut off.

"Yeah," House told him, "you do. Usually I both deserve it and need it, but that doesn't make it any less maddening to listen to. As much as it kills me to say this, you have to go crazy with the lectures and the worrying, even when we're alone at the hospital and especially in public—these people are pros, and they've been bugging my office and other areas of the hospital for months now. Your office is no doubt bugged as well. Hell, this room might be bugged as we speak…and do other things…but I kinda doubt it, not yet. I have an acquaintance—don't even bother asking who—who knows how to sweep a place for listening devices and he's agreed to sweep my place and the loft on a regular basis; he strangely sympathizes with me—he was dumped like garbage too—but he can't secure every place I go every day. So you have to become an instant actor, and so do I."

"The worrying about you will be no problem," Wilson murmured, doing that even as he spoke. "I'll try to pretend…I'm afraid I'll screw up."

House smiled at him indulgently. "You'll do fine. You just have to trust me, Jimmy. I'm in love with _you_, not Cuddy—_for realz_. No more talking; I'm going to ravish you now."

"Okay," Wilson agreed simply, shivering in anticipation.

House covered Wilson, kissing him with burning passion and, for the time being, driving all thoughts except those of heat, sex, love and lust out of the oncologist's mind.


	14. Chapter 14

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**A/N 2:** This chapter involves very mild kink, including domination and submission and spanking. When I say it's mild, it really is. However, if this is of no interest to you you can skip this chapter without really missing any vital information or information pertinent to the plot that won't be mentioned again elsewhere.

**Back Story**

Chapter Fourteen

They went at it like horny teenagers, their erections begging for attention. Wilson had an idea, a fantasy he'd wanted to play out for over a year.

"I want you," Wilson murmured between excited gasps, "…on the organ…."

"You mean the organ as in the musical instrument?" House smirked, pulling back to look at Wilson's face with sparkling eyes, "or the one currently poking me in the thigh?"

"I want _your _organ…on _the_ organ," Wilson answered, chuckling deeply.

"Kinky…I _like_ it." House told him, grinning wolfishly. They grabbed the lube and headed for the living room, kissing and groping the entire way.

"Get your ass over to the organ," Wilson commanded him, completely hard and in need of having his desire quenched. It was an assertiveness bordering on aggression that caught House by surprise before a grin appeared on his whiskered face.

"Your incredibly hot when you get bossy, Jimmy. Command me some more!"

Wilson smirked, then forced a frown, "Get your fucking ass moving before I drag it over there!"

House limped over to the organ obediently. He removed the cover and turned the instrument on, then turned to face his lover and leaned back against it provocatively. His dick was fully erect, deep red and visibly throbbing.

"Is this better?"

Wilson allowed his eyes to study House's body appreciatively. The older man's right hand was pressed over the worst of his leg scar, always so self-conscious about it when it didn't bother Wilson except to make him wish House had never had to endure the suffering he had because of it.

"You are so sexy," Wilson told House, approaching him; he stroked himself now because his need was so great he couldn't resist.

"Watch out for broken glass," House warned him. "The beer bottle…."

"I want to take you from behind. Turn around." Wilson commanded

"You can do better than that," House told him, not complying. "_Make_ me!"

Wilson reached him, kicking the stool out of the way. His dark eyes gazed hungrily into blue ones. He was used to being dominated during sex play—his wives and girlfriends had always played the aggressor—Amber especially so—therefore this change was strange to him but also amazingly exciting. Not that he would ever intentionally hurt House, even if he asked for it. Wilson wasn't into real S and M. He placed his hands on House's shoulders; quickly and with adequate force he spun House around 180 degrees and pushed him face-first against the organ. A cacophonous noise emitted from the instrument, adding some drama. Wilson liked it.

"Uh!" House gasped as air was pushed out of him when he was pressed against the organ.

"Are you in pain?" Wilson asked him quickly, concerned. "Your leg?"

House shook his head. "No…no, I'm good. Don't stop…."

A grin spread across Wilson face. "Whose bitch are you?" he growled into House's ear before biting it hard enough to sting but not hard enough to elicit real pain or draw blood—he hoped. "Say it, Greg—who's bitch are you?" He shoved House a little more against the organ, receiving another 'umph' sound out of him.

"Oh, _fuck!_ Nobody's," House challenged. "I'm not a bitch!"

"Yes you are!" Wilson snapped at him before biting down where House's neck and shoulder met with the same strength as with his ear. It might leave a bruise, but nothing more. He received an enthusiastic moan in response. "If I say you're a bitch, then you're a bitch! Whose bitch are you? Tell me! Whose?" He bit again, just a touch harder.

"Aw!…_Yes!_" House groaned, beginning to pant. "Y-yours."

Wilson reached around House and with the tip of his index finger began to tease the tip of House's dick, just enough to be deliciously cruel. House's hips thrust toward his hand but Wilson pulled his hand away each time he did.

"I didn't hear you," Wilson lied tauntingly, taking that same hand and scratching up House's flank, barely breaking the top layer of skin, causing it to sting. "Say it again—louder!"

"You are!" House nearly shouted desperately. "I'm your bitch! Please, _please _fuck me!"

Slowly Wilson placed his dick between House's legs and slid it over his perineum, between the cheeks until it barely touched his opening. House whimpered and rutted back against it only to have Wilson smack his ass hard enough to leave a handprint.

"Don't do that!" Wilson snarled. "_I'm_ the one who decides when! Got that?" He shoved House hard against the organ again for emphasis. He felt a tremor move through House like a wave and he moaned in what was definitely sexual pleasure. Wilson found this _really_ turning him on, too.

"Oh _god,_ yes!" House cried out. "Please, Jimmy, please fuck me. This is torture!"

"But you like torture, don't you Greg?" Wilson hissed into House's ear, and pinched the flesh on House's flank hard. "You love it." He pinched again, adding a twist. House nodded emphatically, groaned, and panted hotly.

Taking his dick in his hand, Wilson teased House by circling House's opening with the head. Every time he tried to back against Wilson he smacked House's ass again, a little harder each time. Wilson could have sworn he heard a _giggle_ come out of House briefly. House loved this! He knew he had to give in to House's begging soon, or else he would cum all over his lover's ass instead of inside it.

"I don't know that you deserve it, Greg. I only fuck good boys. Have you been a good boy?"

"Ugh! Yes, I'm a good boy! I'm a good boy!"

"Was jumping off a balcony being a good boy, Greg?" Wilson taunted, some real anger mixing with the feigned now. He hit House's ass hard, and had to remind himself to remember his own strength and not get carried away in the frenzy of his lust. "Was marrying a Russian whore without telling me that it wasn't real first—was that being a good boy?" Spank. "I don't think so, Greg…in fact, you've been a bad boy! A very bad boy!" He spanked him hard several times in a row, leaving House's ass glowing red.

"Please, Jimmy!" House groaned in pleasure, his body literally shaking now. "I'll be a good boy! I promise—just, just, oh, _fuck me!"_

"You promise?" Wilson demanded. "You promise to be good and honest with me from now on?"

"I d-do, I-w-will. P-please!"

Wilson grabbed the lube from House and poured a generous amount in his hand before tossing the bottle aside. He slicked down his cock and then House's opening. Slowly and gently Wilson pushed one finger in to House's ass, bringing hissing which gradually eased as House forced himself to relax as much as he could. Once his second finger was inside House, Wilson began to scissor his fingers until House began to push down on them. He was ready. Wilson placed the head of his penis against the opening and then thrust suddenly and hard deeply into him. House cried out and Wilson froze.

"Greg, are you okay?"

House, glistening in sweat, his face flushed and right cheek pressed against the organ, nodded emphatically. "Yes, yes! Just do it!"

House's desperate expression, the lust in his eyes, brought an involuntary groan from Wilson, and he withdrew until just the head of his dick was inside House before thrusting in with force again.

"Oh, Jimmy—a-ahh!—yes! More!"

Wilson panted, nearly overwhelmed by how tight a fit House was around him; the unconscious twitching of House's muscles were like electrical pulses, nearly driving him wild with lust. Wilson moaned with every parry and thrust, allowing House to push against him until they synchronized their efforts. Wilson placed one hand against the organ for leverage and the other wrapped around House, taking hold of his cock and pulling on it in rhythm with his thrusts.

The sounds of unbridled passion coming from the men combined with cacophonous clashing notes from the organ to create an unlikely masterpiece of sound. Wilson knew his neighbors could likely hear them and he didn't give a damn. He was fucking House and in spite of the danger, at that moment he didn't care who knew it.

House came first, sending cum shooting all over Wilson's hand and the organ. That and the muscular contractions inside House and around Wilson brought him to completion. He filled House with his seed, thrusting a few more times before collapsing against his lover, his head on House's shoulder. They both rode out their orgasms that way, their heavy breathing synchronizing just as their rutting had been moments before.

"Well," Wilson said once he was capable of talking again, "We finally christened the organ."

House chuckled. "This was the first baptism—I hope."

"Oh, Sam in one of her more vindictive moments wanted us to have sex against it—you know, her little way of spiting you—but I refused. It would have been…well, like sacrilege."

"Sacrilege?" House echoed, grinning. Wilson smiled, blushing a little.

"Yes. I bought this as a way of telling you that I loved you, though I wasn't fully intending to do so at the time. I didn't want to taint it with her. God, I should have done what I almost did the night I presented the organ to you."

"Which was?"

"This," Wilson answered. "Seeing you play it for the first time…I wanted to stride up to you and fuck the daylights out of you on it. That terrified me at the time, so I forced myself to go to bed instead."

"Well," House commiserated, "better late than never. Jimmy, I need you to get off of me now. This organ is beginning to dig in and my leg—!"

Wilson stood up quickly, kicking himself for not thinking sooner that House had to have been uncomfortable they way they were. He took a couple of steps back and then helped steady House as he pushed himself off of the organ and turned it off. The older man's legs looked as wobbly as those of a newborn foal.

"I was going to suggest we take a shower," he told House, "but I'm not convinced you're up to it yet."

"Just get me to bed," House told him, though halfway to the bedroom House was almost completely supporting himself and their arms around each other's waists remained simply to maintain contact between them. They ended up showering anyway, washing and playing under the hot water before toweling off each other off and ending up on the bed again, wrapped around each other.

"I knew you were supposed to be great in bed," House told him, "but I never pictured you as the BDSM type. Not that I'm complaining—that was _hot_."

"I'm usually not," Wilson admitted, stroking House's arm softly. "I'm definitely not into the actual sado-masochism part. I could never enjoy actually harming you, and I don't get off on being hurt myself. I don't think lovemaking should be abusive; play is fun, but that's where I draw the line. Sorry if that disappoints you."

"I'll survive," was the reply before House turned his head and gave Wilson a gentle kiss.

"By the way," Wilson asked with a curious arching of an eyebrow, "who told you I was great in bed?"

"Bonnie."

At the mention of his second ex-wife's name Wilson recoiled slightly. "Bonnie? You talked with her about what our sex life had been like?"

"Yup." House admitted, a playful smirk toying with the corners of his mouth and eyes.

"When was this?" Wilson was genuinely curious. House and Bonnie had never liked each other—surprise, surprise—and he simply couldn't picture the two of them getting together over coffee to discuss his sexual prowess.

"Remember back a few years ago when Cuddy was looking for just the right sperm donor?" House asked him. "She was considering asking you so you two went out so she could determine whether or not you were suitable?"

"Yeah…she was seriously considering me to be her baby-daddy? I thought that it may have crossed her mind, but…"

"Anyway," House went on, keeping the conversation on topic, "you didn't meet her standards so she chose an anonymous donor instead, as if that makes _any_ sense whatsoever. Don't feel bad, I didn't make the cut either. That woman is impossible…anyway, I was…a little concerned that you two would bypass the _in vitro_ part and go straight for natural insemination. I…went to Bonnie on the premise that I was looking for a new place and I wanted her to be my realtor. I wanted to find out the likelihood that something more between you and Cuddy could develop…."

"And she bought that?" Wilson asked, a little astounded by this story.

"Wilson, she isn't exactly the sharpest pin in the cushion," House responded wryly. "At any rate, I managed to steer the conversation to your relationship with her and she said that you were a patient, considerate lover who aimed to please and definitely did. I can't tell you how hot that made me to hear that. Turns out Bonnie was actually right about at least one thing in her life."

Wilson felt his cheeks grow hot. He cleared his throat. "So you were honestly afraid that you were going to lose Cuddy to me?"

"Hell, no!" House answered quickly. "I was afraid I was going to lose _you _to _her_."

That warmed Wilson's heart, especially the way House told him that with such conviction. Now that he knew how House had loved him secretly for years his jealousy and interference in Wilson's love life made so much more sense than it had. He was amazed that House would actually think that Cuddy and he would hook up; she was definitely _not_ Wilson's type.

"And all these years I thought you were madly in love with Cuddy," Wilson mused, shaking his head, "and instead you were madly in love with me."

"Well," House demurred, rolling his eyes, "I wouldn't exactly say that I was _madly_ in love with-!"

Wilson cut him off with a kiss and then beamed smugly, asserting, "Madly."

House snorted and pulled Wilson in closer, if that was even possible. "Shut up—you're such a girl!"

"Uh, uh," Wilson responded, rubbing his semi-hard cock against his lover's leg. "I'm one hundred percent man…and you're my bitch, remember?"

"That never leaves this apartment," House warned him seriously.

Wilson simply smirked. He sobered, though, when he thought about not being able to be open about their relationship and why that was so.

"Tell me more about this elitist that you have to diagnose and treat," he urged House quietly, resting his head on House's shoulder, his warm breath tickling House's jaw and neck.

"I don't know anything personal about him that isn't medically relevant—or, at least, what his operatives feel is medically relevant," House answered. "He's in his mid-fifties, ordinarily of good health, works out, runs ten miles a day, eats a raw food diet, non-drinker, non-smoker, no serious genetic diseases in his family history…and the skeletal muscles in his body are dying. His cardiac muscle seems to be unaffected by whatever it is that's slowly and painfully killing him. No genetic flaws have been detected to suggest metabolic myopathies of any kind nor is it any known kind of muscular dystrophy. Other than abdominal pain, lack of appetite and nausea, he has exhibited no other symptoms that I've been told about, anyway. He has to be exhibiting signs of renal-and-or-cardiac distress from rhabdomyolysis but I haven't been told of any. I thought of statin influence but Dominika said she wasn't aware of him being on any kind of cholesterol-reducing drugs."

"What about an inflammatory myopathy of some kind?" Wilson suggested, searching his mind for possibilities. "If he had abdominal cancer, he may have also developed dermatomyositis. Has he presented with Gottron's papules or heliotropic eyelids and rash?"

"I don't know," House answered, frowning slightly. "I'm not allowed to see him, not even in photographs, probably because he's a commonly viewed public figure who doesn't want it to get out that he's part of a super-powerful elitist circle controlling the world behind closed doors. It wasn't among the symptoms delivered to me by Dominika. I'll have to have her find out." He sighed. "No one is supposed to know that this guy is sick because there are factions vying for his position in the pyramid of power and if he appears vulnerable they make try to oust him. My understanding is the only way to advance toward the top of the pyramid is to kill the one above you or try to convince one of _his_ superiors to demote him and promote you to his former position. It's cutthroat and no one trusts anyone else—but there is a code and rules that they are bound to. I don't know more than that and I don't want to know more."

"And what happens after you treat this guy when you've destroyed your reputation as a doctor and possibly get fired?"

"I don't know," House replied, his blue eyes searching Wilson's. "I need to know you'll stand by me."

"I have for twenty years—why would I stop now?" Wilson told him, caressing House's cheek.

House kissed him passionately, lingering for a while and then sighed. "I can't stay. I have to get back or Dominika will suspect something is up. I don't want you in any more danger than absolutely necessary."

"Diagnose and cure him soon," Wilson said with a sigh. "Then move back in with me. There won't be another ex-wife re-entering my life, I promise."

"And stop the binging, Jimmy," House told him seriously. He kissed Wilson again, then pulled away and climbed out of bed. Wilson watched as he gathered his clothing from around the loft and dressed quickly. Wilson pulled on a pair of pajama pants and walked House to the door and kissed him again before he left.

Once House was gone Wilson went back to bed. Lying alone, he thought about all that House had revealed to him, and decided that he wasn't going to just sit back and do nothing. House needed help, and he was going to make sure he got it.


	15. Chapter 15

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Fifteen

The next couple of weeks passed uneventfully for both House and Wilson, at least at work; after hours, when they managed to be together, things weren't angst ridden or life-threatening but they were anything but boring. For the time being, House was sitting in limbo waiting for instructions and updates on his mystery patient's condition to come down through Dominika. Four days a week she and House played marriage and Wilson slept alone but when Dominika was gone for those remaining three days, House and Wilson alternated where they spent their nights together—and those nights were mostly hot and sleepless as they indulged in each other until they were too exhausted to continue. After the first three day weekend Dominika showed up at PPTH again and was sitting behind Wilson's desk when he returned from lunch with House. He was certain he'd locked his door and knew that his balcony door was locked as well, yet somehow she had gotten in. He wasn't certain he wanted to know how she had done it.

"What are you doing here?" Wilson had demanded, foregoing all pleasantries when it came to her.

"We need to talk, Dr. _V_ilson," she had answered.

"I really don't have time," Wilson had told her, pretending that he wasn't afraid of her and what she represented. He hadn't known if she had bought his act or not. "I have a patient who will be arriving here for an appointment in five minutes. So, I don't mean to be rude, but you'll have to be going now, Dominika."

A sly smirk had crossed her lips and she'd made no effort to move from his chair. "Of course you mean to be rude. You don't like me, and the feeling is mutual, but we have one thing in common."

"If you're talking about House—" Wilson had begun but she'd cut him off, shaking her head in frustration.

"No, no, no denials, Doctor," she'd told him, her accent thickening a little as her emotions rose. "Are you sleeping with my husband?"

Wilson's eyes had widened before he could prevent them, and he'd fought hard not to give anything else away. His had heart pounded in his chest—she was on to them!

"What—do you think I'm stupid? You don't think I know who he's with and what he's doing while with you? Do I really look that naïve? My relationship with Greg is business only. That being said, I want to warn you that I will not allow your relationship with Greg to interfere with my plans, or Greg's for that matter. As long as you stick to screwing him and don't start sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong, we can co-exist peaceably. If Greg reneges on his half of our agreement, I will make him pay and you will not go unscathed."

"You've fallen into the trap of listening to the gossip around the hospital. House and I are _not _lovers. It's a rumor House himself started years ago to play with people's minds and annoy and embarrass me. You know, as nice as it is to visit with you, Dominika," Wilson had told her with forced patience and bravado, "this is kind of visit is really becoming redundant. You already threatened me if I interfered with you and House. I'm not. Have a nice life together. Now I really do have an appointment to get ready for." They had stared each other down until it ended with Dominika chuckling, shaking her head, and rising smoothly from the chair. She had sashayed around the desk and toward him.

"Be careful, Dr. _V_ilson. You do seem like a nice man and it would be a shame if anything happened to you."

Wilson had met her gaze with a hostile glare. She'd walked past him and out of the office.

The next time Wilson had seen House he'd told him about her return visit.

They couldn't keep all of their excitement over the new phase in their lives together bottled up without some of it bubbling over so they directed it into the form of practical jokes and betting while at work. They hadn't horsed around like that at work for years—since before Amber's death. One of their bets had been to see who could keep a chicken in their office the longest without Cuddy finding out about it. House had tried his usual dirty tricks and Wilson hadn't been a saint either. House had tried luring attention to Wilson's chicken hiding out of his office by printing chicken tracks on the corridor floor leading up to his office while Wilson had invested in an expensive Australorp, one of the quietest breeds of chickens known.

It had been fun and no human got hurt (a potted tree hadn't survived Wilson's run in with it out on the connected balconies between his office and House's, though) but unfortunately that hadn't been true for Wilson's chicken thanks to House and the goddamned Golden Retriever he'd borrowed and had taught to hunt chickens). In the end Wilson had won the bet when House's dog had nabbed Wilson's bird and Wilson had gone chasing after it, leaving his office door open by accident, allowing House's chicken (A Rhode Island Red), which Wilson had chick-napped, to escape and be spotted by a security guard.

They had laughed about the entire bet and how it had turned out over dinner—roast chicken, of course. House had told him about Master's last day with the team and her ethical and moral dilemma leading up to the trick she'd pulled to get House's patient the treatment she'd needed despite the patient's wishes not to be treated at that time. After dinner they had enjoyed dessert, and after dessert, lovemaking.

They simply hadn't been able to get enough of each other (hampered as they were by the strange and dangerous situation they found themselves in, they took every opportunity available to them to be together). Unfortunately, that period of peaceful hiatus came to an end thanks to Cuddy's mother.

Arlene Cuddy was threatening to sue the hospital and House, claiming malpractice relating back to his diagnosis of her illness as being heavy metal poisoning from her faulty hip replacement and creating the need for her to have a new mechanism inserted to replace the bad one. Wilson hadn't been in Princeton at the time that Arlene had fallen ill but had heard all about the incident from House's team when he had returned from the oncology convention in Newark. Cuddy had basically blackmailed House into taking her mother's case after House had wisely refused on ethical grounds. Once again Cuddy had insinuated that her relationship with House was in danger if he didn't treat Arlene so he'd gone against his better judgment in order to protect his relationship.

Wilson knew that House still had a lot of anger and hurt over being dumped by Cuddy in spite of his protests. He also knew that a part of House still loved Cuddy and always would. Wilson knew he could live with that, because he was confident that House and Cuddy were over. Cuddy's attempts to draw House into her Mother-Daughter angst-fest were only inciting more anger and resentment, making House stubborn and ornery; she should know better than to approach House in that fashion.

Wilson was fascinated by the note House had sent him shortly after Cuddy had announced that Arlene was suing; it arrived in the form of a paper airplane hitting him in the temple as they passed each other in the corridor.

_Agent J.,_

_Operation Vortex is in play. Op to convince that I'm Cuddy-sick. Play along, push me to deal with my love, anger for her, yadda, yadda. Ears might be listening._

_Dom is seeing movie with her BF and sleeping over—or so she says. My place, bring beer._

_Code 1-4-3,_

_Agent G._

Wilson chuckled under his breath and shook his head at House's attempt at levity, folded up the note and stuck it into a pocket, then continued on his way.

It was time for Wilson, the _House-luvs-Cuddy_ cheerleader, to emerge from his sleep again, though this time it was purely for show, which was a relief. He'd hated pushing them together when he wanted House for himself and could see that they would never survive long-term. The only reason behind his cheerleading had been to ensure House's happiness, and for a while there Wilson had been convinced that Cuddy was the person who would bring House the happiness he so desperately desired. Thankfully, he'd been misled in believing this.

He'd had a bad start to his morning which included rushing Sarah to the vet hospital after she found and ate some beef jerky House had absentmindedly (purposefully?) dropped between the seat cushion on the sofa. Wilson had found her in a diabetic coma and had had to rush her for emergency treatment. House had looked solemn when he saw Wilson wrapping the cat up in a blanket to transport her, so he hadn't berated him for the mistake.

Then, on his way from the vet hospital to the people hospital he'd hit the sharp end of a tarp strap lying on the expressway and blown a tire. After taking the time to change it Wilson finally reached the hospital just in time for Cuddy to stop him in the lobby and harp about him being late and House refusing to sit down and talk with her mother and her mother's lawyer about the lawsuit. The cherry bomb on top of this sundae of shit had been the coding and death of one of his patients—one that had appeared to be on the mend. Only House's airplane-note had brought a smile to his face.

So when House, carrying a scan from his current patient, barged into his office later that morning, Wilson really wasn't in the mood to discuss what he knew House had come over to discuss. He was about to tell House that it could wait until cuddle-time tonight when he remembered that House had warned him that the hospital was bugged, including their offices. Of course their apartments had been bugged as well, but House's _friend_ had gone through both domiciles with a bug-sweeper and did so three times a week so they felt relatively safe discussing things in their homes.

It was time to put Operation Vortex into play and dole out some advice for dealing with Cuddy at the same time.

"**Need a consult,**" House announced. "**Did an EEG on my patient. Turns out the reason that prior doctors thought it wasn't a neuro problem is because it's not a neuro problem. The EEG did show signs of metabolic distress.**"

Wilson looked up at him. "**Well, scan his abdomen.**"

"**Yeah, let's assume we'd already figured that out on our own, and found a mass on the pancreas,**" House replied with a hint of sarcasm, handing Wilson the scan film to look at. Wilson set his pen down and studied the film for a moment or two. It didn't look good, which in a way was good for House and his team.

"**Looks solid. I'd say it's cancer,**" Wilson confirmed. "**Paraneoplastic syndrome would explain the neurological symptoms. You need to get a piece of it. Schedule a CT-guided biopsy.**"

"**Yeah, let's assume we'd already figured that out on our own.**"

Wilson looked at his best friend in frustration. "**Then what's this consult?**"

The look in House's eyes answered his question wordlessly. Of course—the airplane note, Operation Vortex as House had coined it—the game was afoot. However, Wilson couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this visit than simply (simply?) that.

"**Why haven't you been yelling at me about the Cuddy twins?**" House demanded, earnestly confused.

"**Because you're doing the right thing,**" Wilson told him simply. The confused and surprised expression on House's face was so adorable that Wilson wanted to kiss his face all over. _Later,_ he told himself.

"**Are we talking about the same issue? Is there something I don't know about that I'm responding to appropriately?**"

There was something about House's response that caused Wilson a twinge of guilt. He knew that he'd been pushing Cuddy's side of the issues a little heavily over the past months in an effort to help House see the need to do things to please her to keep his relationship with her alive—even when Wilson felt that House's reactions to her demands had been perfectly rational and understandable. Even though so much had changed between House and Wilson since then, House was still expecting him to side with Cuddy.

Wilson, from now on, would defend the position that he believed was the correct one, leaning always in favor of his lover, of course.

"**Cuddy wants you in the middle of this,**" Wilson explained, having to remind himself that he was still supposed to _sound_ like he was on Cuddy's side for the sake of those faceless people, and one with a face named Dominika, listening in to their conversations. "**So does Arlene. Because they don't want to face their own problem. Somehow, in your knee-jerk, juvenile way, you tripped and fell into an actual adult response to this.**"

House came over to one of the visitor chairs and sat down. "**You're right,**" he mused. "**That was Cuddy's strategy all along. She wanted me to think that she desperately needed me to be there so that I wouldn't be there.**"

Wilson sighed; House and his logic—always looking for the twist. It both annoyed Wilson and attracted him to his partner. He watched House pop a phony Vicodin, hoping that it really was as phony as the one Wilson had bitten into before.

"You always make me nervous when you scheme." Wilson told him, a knowing gleam in his eye. House grinned back, winking.

He rose from the chair and rounded Wilson's desk, leaned over him and whispered into his ear. "Admit it—you love it. What do you say—oncology storage room one at twelve-thirty? I'll bring the ultrasound gel."

Repressing a chuckle, and feeling his cock twitch at the idea of a quickie, Wilson looked at him with hungry eyes and gave him a half-nod of agreement. House kissed his ear then quickly sucked on Wilson's ear lobe before righting himself again and limping out of the office, leaning heavily on his cane as he did.

**~H/W~**

As soon as Wilson heard about House's confrontation with Arlene and Lisa, he sought out the diagnostician. It was one thing to step in and show up at the meeting with Arlene and her lawyer when he'd figured out that Cuddy was using reverse psychology on him, but it was quite another to mock the woman suing the hospital holding his medical license in the palm of her hands. Whether or not this was the 'spiraling out of control' House had been instructed to portray, his actions could end up with him being sued for everything he was worth and then some.

He found House entering the elevator, which was otherwise empty, and half-ran to catch it before the pocket doors slid shut.

"Greg," Wilson said after the doors had shut and House pressed the fourth floor button with his cane, "what the hell were you thi-!"

"Shh!" House hushed him quickly, his eyes widening in warning. Wilson cut his words off and watched as House opened the emergency phone panel and pointed to a small, round object that looked like a computer microchip stuck on the inside of the door up in a corner.

"_Is that a bug?_" Wilson mouthed, both of his full eyebrows arching. House nodded and closed the panel door again as quietly as possible. Wilson shook his head in disbelief. He rethought what he was going to say. "**You had to go all Wile E. Coyote on me.**"

"**You told me that Arlene wanted me in the middle of it. I had to show her that no good would come of that,**" House explained as if what he'd done hadn't been anything significant enough to warrant Wilson's freak-out.

Wilson looked at the ceiling of the elevator car and shook his head, amazed at him. "**Seriously? That's your rationalization?**" The elevator opened onto the fourth floor. They stepped off and walked toward their offices. "**How about you didn't like that Cuddy tricked you? Even though you wanted the same thing as her. You didn't like that she got the best of you. You've got more anger toward her than you realize.**"

House rolled his eyes, even though he knew Wilson was trying to get a real message across while pretending that he and House were still behaving with each other under pretense.

"**I'm happier without her. I'm not stupidly expecting her to make me happy. I'm happier with my unhappiness,**" House responded, truthfully at least for the first part of his statement. The second part Wilson wasn't certain. Happy or not, acting or not, House had done a dangerous thing that Wilson was afraid that he would now have to fix to prevent his lover from getting into unnecessary trouble.

"**Do you listen to what you're saying?**" Wilson asked him. "**Because _I_ have to. I'm holding a summit meeting to force you and Cuddy onto the same page before a lawsuit gets filed.**" He pointed at House for emphasis.

House ignored him, parting from him to enter the DDx room, where his team waited for him to discuss their patient. Wilson sighed, frustrated, before heading for his office to prepare for a referral appointment, forcing the situation with Arlene, Lisa, and House out of his mind for the time being.


	16. Chapter 16

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Sixteen

Wilson was true to his word about wrangling House and Cuddy together into the same room to discuss what they were going to do about Arlene's lawsuit. He nearly had to drag Cuddy along with him into a coma patient's room where House had taken over the patient's bed, laying the rightful occupant on the floor; both Cuddy and he reacted first with shock then with their 'That's House' expressions on their faces. House was busy watching his portable TV and eating popcorn. Wilson groaned inwardly, feeling badly for the patient.

House looked lazily at them. "**Thought we were meeting in Cuddy's office**."

_Which_, Wilson mentally acknowledged, _explains why House is here_.

"**And I put one of the radio frequency tagged sponges from the O.R. in your portable television.**" Wilson told him. He hadn't been friends with House for all these years and not learned a thing or two from him about being devious.

Cuddy decided this was her opportunity to fire the first shot. "**However much it hurt, I did have a right to break up with you.**"

"**You just want everything to have a hidden personal agenda,**" House told her, opening the back of his TV to remove the sponge.

Wilson knew it was true. When you were the center of your own universe like Cuddy was, _everything_ was personal in one way or another. Still, he had to referee them to ensure they got somewhere.

"**You need to get over it instead of torpedoing our jobs out of spite,**" the Dean told her ex angrily. This was met with sarcasm and bitterness from House.

"**Couldn't just be that you're a pain professionally.**"

Wilson had to jump in; this was getting out of hand. "**Stop! You're both at fault here.**" He pointed at Cuddy accusingly. "**You for trying to manipulate House when you used to know better, and you,**" Wilson pointed now at House, "**for… being _you_ in this situation, which is an especially bad idea under the circumstances.**"

"**I had good reasons,**" House defended but Wilson, as much as he loved him, wasn't buying it.

Wilson retorted, "**You had lame rationalizations.**"

It was Cuddy's turn to rationalize now. "**If I hadn't played him, he'd have found out about the meeting and crashed it anyway.**"

That was likely true, Wilson knew, but this wasn't helping.

"**Would have been a lot more efficient,**" House shot back, also not helping the situation. Wilson sighed silently, wondering what kind of masochistic psychological complex he had that explained why he always placed himself in the position of middle man or mediator.

"**Enough!**" Wilson exclaimed, frustrated with both of them. "**Okay, here's what's gonna happen. Tomorrow I drive both of you to Arlene's. You're gonna write her a personal check for $30,000, and tell her she can stay in her own home with your blessing.**" He looked at Cuddy. "**You're gonna do this because you actually give a crap about your job and this hospital and your mother, and possibly even…House.**" Wilson then turned to speak directly at House, focusing on the end of his nose so he wasn't influence by his lover's big, beautiful blue eyes staring back at him. "**And you're gonna say, I'm sorry, and not utter one syllable more.**"

He was serious about this and wanted both House and Cuddy to know it. It wasn't often Wilson confronted the both of them at the same time like this, but if they both were going to act like children then they needed someone to behave like the adult and get things back on track.

House gave him a defiant look. "**Because I'm an idiot?**" he asked snarkily.

Wilson glared back at him. Without thinking much about it, he blurted, "**No, because if you don't, I'm gonna tell the pharmacy to stop issuing Vicodin prescriptions in my name.**"

The gleam in House's eye was reminder enough that House didn't give a damn about that because he wasn't taking real Vicodin. Wilson realized how lame his threat was and groaned silently. Sure, House was picking up the real stuff from the hospital pharmacy but was dumping it as soon as he got it home. Wilson had seen him do it, feeling so proud of him. However, there were other ways Wilson could punish House for disobedience and House knew it.

He silently said as much in his challenging glare back at House. After a stand-off between them for what felt to Wilson like hours but was actually only a second or two, House conceded.

"**I'm not paying for gas,**" he added like a petulant child not getting his own way.

Wilson rolled his eyes at that. Cuddy also agreed with Wilson's plan and went to clear her schedule for the next day.

As soon as Cuddy had left the room House rose from the bed and closed the difference between Wilson and him, grabbing his boyfriend and kissing him passionately, drawing a small moan from Wilson's throat. When they parted House grinned at him lecherously. "You're unbelievably hot when you take charge, you know that? What do you say we hop on this bed and have our little quickie now, hmm?"

"No!" Wilson answered, exasperated. Besides the fact that the idea of having sex on the coma patient's bed while the coma patient lay on the cold floor beside them made Wilson squeamish, he wasn't about to be distracted by House's obvious attempt to cause it. "I'm serious about this situation with Arlene and Cuddy, Greg; we have to take care of this situation before Arlene takes this hospital down and you, Cuddy, and me with it. As for our private plan, we said lunch and lunch it will be. You'll just have to wait."

"But Jimmy," House whispered; only he could figure out how to whine like a child and whisper all at the same time, "Little Greg wants Little Jimmy to come out to play now! He's _lonely_."

"He'll survive," Wilson told him, rolling his eyes at his lover's insistence on giving their dicks nicknames. "House, we can't afford to fuck this up."

"You're not the one getting sued."

"What hurts you, hurts me," Wilson told him seriously. "It's always been that way."

**~H/W~**

House had Wilson hard against the wall of the storage room next door to House's office on the other side, one hand holding Wilson's hands above his head and pinned to said wall, the other hand around Wilson stroking his cock as he thrusted quickly inside of him. His dick hit Wilson's prostate over and over again, and it took everything Wilson had to keep himself from crying out each time. His dress shirt was open at the neck, his tie hanging over the back of a broken visitor's chair; his dress pants and boxer-briefs were around his ankles. House's pants and underwear were open and lowered but not completely past his hips; he kissed at Wilson's neck and shoulder between pants, soft moans, and grunts.

The door was locked, but just the fact that House's team sat one and a half rooms over having lunch as House fucked him was incredibly exciting for Wilson.

"Oh…Ah!—Greg!" Wilson gasped, trying to keep his voice down but finding it increasingly difficult to control himself as he came closer and closer to climaxing.

"Give it to me, Jimmy," House growled in his ear, panting hard, dripping sweat onto the younger man's shoulder. "Come on, Baby…come for me…come for me, Jimmy. Just let go!"

"S-so close—!"

House sucked hard on Wilson's earlobe, moaning in his throat. He gently bit down on it, and Wilson cried out just before he climaxed, shooting cum all over House's hand and the wall. Two more thrusts were all it took for House, who ejaculated hard inside of Wilson, filling him with his seed, continuing to rut until he was milked empty; his continued thrusts only served to extend the length of Wilson's orgasm.

He leaned heavily against the wall with House leaning against him, his prickly face buried in the crook of Wilson's neck. House's hot, moist breath tickled Wilson as he panted and they rode out their orgasms together. House released his hold on Wilson's hands and wrapped that arm around his lover's torso, pulling him close.

"What a great…lunch," Wilson panted when he found his voice again.

"Definitely beats…Reuben sandwiches…." House agreed, chuckling deeply.

"Can you imagine the money…I'll save in a year if we do this…just one lunch break a week?" Wilson asked, grinning. He turned around in House's embrace so that his shoulder blades rested against the cool wall and wrapped his arms around House, too.

House smirked, amused, and leaned in for a loving, tender, lingering kiss. He then leaned his forehead against Wilson's, looking deeply into his eyes. He reached up and cupped Wilson's face with his clean hand, gently brushing his cheekbone with his thumb. Wilson pressed his face into his partner's touch, humming softly.

"I love you, Greg."

"I know…I love you, too," House responded. His eyes became troubled. "You're not completely convinced of that."

There was pregnant pause before Wilson found words he was willing to speak. "I believe you love me, I do."

"There's a 'but' there," House pointed out.

"You're not as over Cuddy as you claim to be, or think you are," Wilson told him, nodding. "There's a part of you that wants her back."

"No," House said firmly, shaking his head. "I don't."

"Greg—"

"I don't want her back!" House insisted. He glanced away from Wilson for a moment, exhaled through his nose, and then returned his eyes to meet Wilson's. "I admit that…that my pride has been bruised by the way she threw me away like a used Kleenex. I want her to hurt as much as I had at first. If I didn't have you…but I do, and you're the one I've always wanted more than I ever wanted her. It's okay to question my motives when we are in public, around other people. It's necessary, but don't…don't question how I feel about you when it's just you and me. Tell me what I have to do to prove it to you…."

"Nothing," Wilson told him, and smiled apologetically. "You already have. I'm just being—"

"Paranoid?" House offered. "Suspicious? Mistrusting?"

"Point taken," Wilson assured him quickly, frowning slightly. "Do we _have_ to keep up this stupid act in public? I'm telling you, Dominika knows about us."

"I know," House said grimly, nodding, "and she seems content to leave it alone so long as it doesn't interfere with their plans, which she won't even share completely with me. Becoming public about us would do that, though. For some reason everybody has to believe that I'm falling apart because of my break up with Cuddy, discrediting myself personally. People wouldn't believe that if they knew we were a couple now. "

"This is going to destroy your future, Greg."

"They promised me that the effects would only be temporary," House assured him, not sounding completely convinced himself. "If I cooperate, they'll make certain my reputation is restored, what little good there is left to it in the first place. My future…is you. As long as I have you the rest doesn't matter."

"And you trust them to keep their word?" Wilson asked apprehensively. "If they're as powerful as you say, why would they go to the bother?"

"I told you," he replied, "it's part of their code." House kissed the end of Wilson's nose. "Everything will be alright so long as we follow their instructions. If I didn't think so, we'd be headed for the nearest airport and getting the hell out of Dodge."

"What do they have you doing right now aside from disgracing yourself?"

"Still looking for a diagnosis," House replied grimly. "I think I have one…but they aren't about to allow me to test my theory on their guy and risk him dying if I'm wrong, which really puts a cramp in my diagnostic process. If I'm wrong…well, my will is in the wooden box hidden in my closet. They'll make it look like a suicide, or I'll have a mysterious and deadly car accident—"

"Don't even joke about that!" Wilson snapped, sotto voce. Just the idea of anything happening to House turned his blood cold.

"It's not a joke." House covered Wilson's mouth with his before the latter could say anything more. They kissed desperately, as if it might be their last. Wilson could feel the fear and anxiety in House's kiss and blended his own with it.

Their lips parted but their faces still remained less than an inch apart.

"Just play along," House breathed. "I'm drug-addled, losing my mind, spinning completely out of control because my last hope was Cuddy and I lost her. You have to be as annoying about me getting back together with her as you've ever been and expect the unexpected. I'll keep you updated as much as I dare and don't forget…I love _you_, Jimmy—_always_. Now, as much as I lust after that ass of yours, it's time to clean up, pick up trou, and get out of here. I'll wait five and then leave as well."

**~H/W~**

The next day Wilson managed to wrangle together Cuddy and House for the confrontation with Arlene. The ride over was a silent one. Wilson drove, House whined until he got the shotgun position because of his leg, and Cuddy sat in the back seat, arms crossed over her chest making her look like an angry, pouting child. From time to time Wilson looked in his rearview mirror and saw Cuddy glaring daggers at the back of House's head. House, on the other hand, occupied himself with trying to inch his hand toward Wilson's crotch without being caught. He made it once. Wilson reluctantly slapped his hand away. House's yelp attracted Cuddy's attention.

"What's going on up there?" she demanded.

"Nothing," Wilson responded quickly, casting House a sidelong glare.

"I was trying to cop a feel but Wilson's shy with my ex in the car," House countered, a mischievous smirk in his eyes and on his face.

Cuddy simply shook her head and looked out the window, not believing him. Wilson sighed silently in relief. That was one discussion he didn't want to have with her under these circumstances.

They pulled up in front of Arlene's house, and Cuddy stepped out of the car before it completely came to a stop. She led the way up the walkway to the house, determination in her stride but didn't knock until House and Wilson caught up to her. Wilson stood slightly behind Cuddy to her right, House to her left.

Arlene opened the door and stood there, staring at the trio expectantly.

"**Mom, here's a check,**" Cuddy said to her mother quietly, but Wilson could see her tense up with the effort of controlling herself. "**It's a settlement for all you've been through. Of course you can stay in your home. It was wrong of me to suggest otherwise.**" She stepped back, closer to Wilson and House as if for physical as well as moral support. Arlene looked to House next, smiling slightly and waiting for him to speak. Wilson takes a deep breath, hoping for the best but expecting the…

"**I'm sorry,**" House began, and Wilson nearly smiled until he heard House continue, "**that we saved your life.**" Then, as an afterthought he added, "**In the way that we did.**"

_Well, it could have been worse_, Wilson figured. He looked at House and said, "**B-plus.**" He directed himself to Arlene next. "**I hope this resolves everything. I can tell you that both your daughter and Dr. House—**"

Arlene looked at the check and frowned, cutting Wilson off. "**This is thirty grand.**"

"**Which is what you asked for,**" Wilson reminded her, but that didn't please Arlene at all.

"**This covers pain and suffering. What about the probate lawyer?**" she demanded. Wilson looked at her, nonplused. _Probate lawyer…_? Wilson glanced at House questioningly to find the other man giving him the same look.

He gestured between Arlene and Lisa. "**Do you two…?**"

"**I have to change my will, leave everything to Julia so this one doesn't try more funny business to get control of my home,**" Arlene explained, glaring at her daughter. Wilson saw Lisa bristle at her mother's comment.

"**I'm sure we can toss in another 2,500,**" Wilson suggested feebly but was ignored.

Cuddy glared angrily at her mother and spat, "**Well, I guess I'll have to kill you tonight then! Mom, I'm not interested in—**"

"**You already think you own my body. Why not my home too?**" Arlene asked accusingly, cutting Cuddy off.

Wilson noticed that House's anger was building too. It was obvious that he was furious with Arlene for treating her daughter that way. House's feelings, his protectiveness, were still strong for Cuddy—stronger than House would admit; it was something that made Wilson jealous in spite of himself. He had to remind himself why he was there.

"**Everybody stay calm, and—**" Wilson began but it was clear that the situation was already beyond that.

"**You have to lash out at everyone who tries to help you?**" Cuddy asked her mother in frustration. "**Live in your own kitchen sink for all I care!**"

Ever the one to take every opportunity to create more trouble, House turned to Cuddy, looking at her in mock-disgust and told her, "**Harsh. I didn't think you had a case before, but that is no way to talk to a patient.**"

Wilson glared at him but House either didn't notice or didn't care.

"**You are right,**" Arlene agreed. She tore up the check and then shut the door on them. Both Cuddy and Wilson looked at House, unimpressed with his last comment. He stared back at them, unrepentant. Cuddy shook her head and headed back to Wilson's car. Side by side, House and Wilson followed her, just out of earshot.

"You didn't really think Arlene would go for your little pay-off plan, did you?" House asked.

Wilson shrugged and exhaled loudly. "I was hoping she would."

"Nah." House shook his head. "Too easy. She's up to more than just seeking revenge or retribution. I just wish I knew what."

Wilson stared at his lover for a long moment. "You're not over Cuddy."

"Of course I am," House insisted, frowning. "God, you're insecure!"

Shaking his head, Wilson knew he wasn't wrong. "This isn't insecurity. This is observation. I saw how uptight you were getting when Arlene was accusing and insulting Cuddy. You still love her."

"Of course I do," House answered, keeping his volume down. "A part of me always will…but I'm _in love_ with you. I thought we'd already settled this! You've got to believe me. "

When Wilson didn't answer, House grabbed his arm to stop him, to force him to look House in the eye. "Don't you?" he demanded.

Wilson searched House's face, his eyes, looking for duplicity, but he couldn't find it. There was a raw earnestness staring back at him.

Before he could answer House, Cuddy called from beside Wilson's car, "Hey, are you two coming or what?"

"Wilson?" House persisted quietly, ignoring her.

A lump formed in Wilson's throat, and he swallowed hard against it then nodded. "Yeah," he murmured, "I do." He gave House a smile he wasn't certain he felt. House seemed to relax somewhat upon hearing that.

"Good. Now I don't want to talk about this anymore."

They hurried to the car without another word to each other.


	17. Chapter 17

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Seventeen

Wilson entered the clinic in search of House. He'd heard that Arlene was willing to talk again and wanted to make certain House would take this new opportunity to peaceably settle the situation with her seriously. He spotted the diagnostician walking out of an exam room with a file he was reading.

"**Janet… Hemorrhoid**?" House called out to the patients waiting to be seen. One woman self-consciously rose from her chair and hurried over to him. Wilson couldn't actually hear her, but he could read House's lips well enough.

"**That's not my name. It's why I'm here,**" she told House on the down low. Wilson winced when he saw the mischievous gleam in House's eye.

Loud as always, House replied, "**Oh, I see. It goes across. We better make this fast, 'cause I'm about to lose my medical license for malpractice. It's nothing unusual. The head of the hospital's about to lose hers too.**"

Janet slowly walked away from House upon hearing that, deciding, Wilson supposed, that she'd rather have hemorrhoids than something much more serious inflicted upon her by a 'bad' doctor. Wilson sighed—that's exactly the reaction House had been looking for. He approached his best friend, who had stepped over to the reception desk to do some quick charting and grab a new patient file.

"**I heard Cuddy quadrupled your clinic hours,**" Wilson told him, referring to Cuddy's penalty for House's smart aleck remarks earlier around her mother. The woman had difficulty separating personal business and professional punishment—or was that personal punishment and professional business?

"**Yeah, but you know what? I'm flying through patients,**" House retorted, pleased with himself.

_Yeah, you sure are,_ Wilson thought, mentally shaking his head. "**Arlene wants another meeting.**"

"**I know; told my seconds to tell her seconds that she gets no second chance. Well, technically, it's a third chance, but I don't have thirds.**"

Wilson nodded, not surprised. "**Cuddy told her the same thing, more or less.**" He glanced around the room, wondering if they were being watched by someone in the clinic at that very moment. He remembered how important it was that they behave like losing Cuddy was all House could obsess over, but it sucked having to carry on with this ridiculous pretense. He wanted the world to know how much he loved House and how lucky he was to be loved by the man in return. It had taken him a long time to get to this place, and having to continue to hide the truth was frustrating to say the least.

"**So you got us on the same page after all,**" House quipped.

"**I've been thinking about your irrationality, and I've come up with a rational explanation for it,**" Wilson told him. He sighed internally; the show had to go on and he knew that if the situation had been a 'normal' one, he would be saying and doing these same things.

"**That's quite a challenge,**" House replied sarcastically, but the look in his eye told Wilson that he knew what Wilson was up to and was ready for him.

The thing was, even as Wilson revealed his explanation he fleetingly wondered how close to the truth it really was. "**You don't want to let go of Cuddy, so you're clinging to the negative interaction, because some small part of you thinks the bad stuff beats nothing at all.**"

Wilson knew that had been true as far as he and House were concerned over the years. Wilson had many times sought out a confrontation with House just to have an excuse to be with him, to talk with him and have interaction when things hadn't been going well for them in their friendship. The same could, theoretically, be true for House with Cuddy—that is, if Wilson hadn't been told otherwise several times by his enigmatic lover.

There was amusement combined with frustration in House's reaction to that. "**You're almost making this work. All you got to do now is change reality. Perhaps if I was the one suing me….**"

"**You didn't start it,**" Wilson argued, "**but you had the chance to end it, and you didn't. You love her, House, and it's human to hang on, but you're blowing up not just your job but any chance of any kind of relationship with her again.**"

Wilson wished that he was wrong, but he knew that House's feelings for Cuddy were still more conflicted than he let on. Would House take her back if she changed her mind? Wilson didn't think so, but that wasn't reassuring enough; he wanted to _know_ so without a doubt. Was he just being paranoid and pessimistic for the sake of it, because that's the way he'd been toward House for so many years—reluctant to take his word at face value?

Regardless, he hoped that House's handlers had overheard that conversation and they had been convinced that House and he were still no more than friends, or if they already knew that they were lovers, then they were convinced that House and he would carry on the charade to protect the operation House was being coerced into participating in.

House gave him a surreptitious wink when nobody seemed to be looking, his way of commending Wilson for a job well done. He then called another patient and disappeared into one of the exam rooms with him. Wilson sighed, shook his head in frustration, which wasn't feigned. This whole situation was fucked. Wilson turned to leave and nearly walked right into a strange man in a charcoal suit walking behind him.

"I'm sorry," Wilson apologized, looking at the other man. He looked familiar…but Wilson couldn't think of where he had seen him before. It would probably come to him later, he assured himself.

The dark haired man shook his head and said simply, "No problem." He walked away from Wilson, who watched him leave the clinic, and frowned slightly. There was something about him that made Wilson feel uneasy. With a mental shrug he sighed and left the clinic as well.

**~H/W~**

Wilson showed up at House's apartment around seven that evening, knowing that his lover would be waiting for him. He carried a six pack with him, wondering if House would allow him any, especially if he smelled the bourbon that was already on his breath. He'd only had one, just to settle his nerves after a bizarre day. House's patient, Cyrus, whom he'd diagnosed with a teratoma, actually had several when given a full-body MRI and PET scan and suddenly became Wilson's patient; like his patient load wasn't heavy enough. He would be biopsying the man's tumors in the morning to see how many of them were malignant; he suspected at least one was.

He knocked on House's door, but received no response from within. House's bike was parked out front, as was his Chrysler, so he was home unless he'd gone for a walk, which seemed unlikely. That meant House had to be in the bathroom or bedroom where he couldn't hear the knock. Wilson shrugged and let himself in with the replacement key House had given him. He walked into the living room and smirked; it was the cleanest Wilson had seen it since he'd stayed with House following his divorce from Julie. At least having Dominika around was good for one thing. House had said she would be away on 'business' for the weekend so he felt at ease being there.

"Greg?" Wilson called out, checking out the kitchen though he wasn't certain why—his chances of finding House at work in there were slim (even though House had proven himself quite the cook after attending a single cooking class with him). Putting the six-pack into the fridge, he then headed for House's bedroom. The bathroom door was closed but there was no light coming from under the door so House wasn't in there, which meant he was in the bedroom. Sure enough, as Wilson approached the room he'd become quite familiar with lately he heard rustling around within.

Wilson opened the door, "Greg, do you want Chinese or pizza—?"

A dark-haired bulldozer hit Wilson's gut as someone who was definitely not House lowered his body and used his shoulder to ram into him and send him back and against the corridor wall opposite the door. Every ounce of air was knocked out of him as Wilson hit the wall. He gasped for breath and didn't have a chance to react before a fist slammed into his jaw. He thought he heard a pop; Wilson's head snapped to the side as blinding pain stunned him and he fell on his ass on the floor. He tried to turn away from the assault only to be kicked hard in the small of his back. He cried out in agony and blacked out.

**~H/W~**

He awoke slowly to find himself lying on a treatment table in an ER bay, a curtain pulled around his space, and yet another penlight being flashed in his eyes. Wilson groaned as his brain began to register pain again. His jaw hurt like a sonofabitch, as did his gut and back. His head felt like someone was hitting it over and over again with a hammer as he lay there. When his eyes could see more than just spots from the penlight again he realized he was looking up at two faces, a female doctor and House. Both looked very concerned, but House also looked like he was sick to his stomach and would run out of the bay at any moment to throw up. It didn't matter—Wilson was relieved to see that he was okay, that no one had hurt him, too.

"Dr. Wilson," the other doctor said to him, "I'm Dr. Christine Woolliskraft. I'm the ER attending on duty tonight. You're at the Princeton-Plainsboro ER. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

Wilson went to nod and then grimaced at the bolts of lightning like pain that shot straight to his brain from his jaw.

"Your jaw was dislocated and X-Rays have been taken to see if it's broken but the films aren't back yet, so don't try to talk too much."

"Wha' haa-enn'?" Wilson tried to say, a tear escaping his eye from the pain it caused.

"We were hoping you could tell us," Woolliskraft told him with a sympathetic smile, apparently understanding what he'd said. "The police will want to know, too."

Wilson's eyes shifted to House. Police? How did that jive with House's 'business partners'? House simply met his gaze with piercing, worried blue eyes.

"I need to run a neuro check," Woolliskraft told Wilson. She turned her head to say something to someone out of Wilson field of view and he wasn't about to risk agony to turn his head to see who it was. A pair of hands appeared long enough to hand the doctor a pad of paper and pen. Woolliskraft raised the head of Wilson's bed enough to make it easier for him to take the items and use them. His belly hurt some as it happened but he barely felt it over the stronger pain in his neck, head, and back.

"Just write your answers to my questions," the ER doc instructed him. She ran through a series of questions to measure the functioning level of his higher cognitive functions and then a couple of physical exercises he could perform while lying down to check his motor functions.

"You missed a couple of questions but for the most part you're doing great, all things considered," she told him. Wilson glanced at House for confirmation. His boyfriend nodded slightly and Wilson relaxed.

"Since you were unconscious for nearly four hours we also took head X-rays which we're still waiting on," she informed him. "You're queued for a CT scan and should be going down for that within the hour. You have a giant purple bruise in the shape of a shoe on your lower back on the left side and there was a small amount of blood in your urine. Ultrasound didn't pick up a bleed originating from your kidney but we're monitoring you closely to be on the safe side. Dr. House concurs that it isn't likely more serious than some bruising of the organ, so we'll keep up with the ultrasounds to make sure nothing more serious develops. There are also bruises on your abdomen but there is no rigidity and no sign of trouble on the ultrasound. Your jaw was badly dislocated and bruised and the substantial swelling and continued pain suggests a fracture. If there is one you may require having the fracture set and your jaw wired until it's healed. Sorry."

Wilson closed his eyes and groaned; just what he needed.

"Look on the bright side," House said wryly. "I get to listen to fewer lectures and you get to pig out on ice cream, smoothies, Ensure and if you're a good boy I'll blend up a roast or a steak for you. How does a baked potato milkshake sound?"

His response was to give House the finger. House grinned cheekily in response, but behind the smile there was fear that he couldn't quite camouflage from Wilson. Woolliskraft smiled in amusement.

"You have a second degree concussion," she told Wilson, continuing with the list of injuries. "You must have struck your head at some point, perhaps when you fell to the floor. You're being admitted for observation. As soon as the films taken of your head are back, and I'm certain you don't have anything more serious going on, I'll give you something stronger than parecetamol for your pain. I have to go check on some other patients now but I'll be back to talk to you more when the X-ray results return, okay?"

"Uh huh," Wilson told her, moving his mouth as little as possible. "'Hanks."

She nodded and then left House and him alone, making certain that the curtain was closed to give them privacy. She gave House a knowing look right before she left that spurred Wilson's curiosity, but he didn't have it in him to ask about it just then.

House took his hands in his and then leaned down to kiss Wilson's forehead tenderly. House was displaying a side of himself—the tender, loving side—that few people were lucky enough to see and which Wilson was still getting used to, but he definitely liked it.

"Do you remember anything that happened?" he asked Wilson.

Wilson thought hard for a few moments, and bits and pieces came back, which he was able to fit together to make a semi-cogent response. He began to write his answer down and then showed the paper to House.

"You honestly expect me to be able to read this chicken scratch?" House asked him, smirking. Wilson glared at him, in too much pain to appreciate his attempt at levity. House looked at the paper again.

_I came by as planned. You didn't answer door, I let myself in. Heard noise in bedroom—thought it was you. Was wrong. Knocked out of room by tall guy, black hair. He punched me in face. On floor now, he kicked me in back. I passed out then woke up here._

A pained expression flitted across House's face as he read but then quickly disappeared as House reined in his emotions.

"Did you get a look at the guy's face?" House asked somberly.

Wilson nodded, took paper pad back and wrote, _Briefly. Seen him before twice. Once at resort, in lounge. Once at clinic earlier today. Think he's been parked outside the condo a couple of times, when U R not there._

House read that and then swore softly and Wilson saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. All color left his face.

"His name is Bohdan Boyko," House told him softly, "Dominika's quote-unquote boyfriend; her partner in crime. He's Ukrainian, speaks limited English but reads and understands it well enough. If he's been staking out the condo building, he suspects something. He's watching you, you're in danger."

_We knew that they'd be watching me 'cause I'm your best friend,_ Wilson wrote. _Doesn't mean I'm in more danger than before, does it?_

House looked at him as if he were an idiot. "You had the shit beaten out of you—what do _you_ think?"

_I caught him by surprise_, Wilson argued. _If I had been targeted, he would have attacked me on way home, or loft. He attacked to get away. Don't like look in your eyes. What R U thinking?_

"I can't risk losing you," House murmured. "Being around me is too dangerous now."

_No!_ Wilson scrawled and then underlined it twice. _Too late to try to protect me. I'm in all the way. Won't leave you._

"Wilson, use your head," House told him, almost pleadingly. "If this is what they did to you because you caught Boyko off-guard, what will they do if they find out about us, that I told you about them?"

_They already know—sure of it! Besides, doesn't matter,_ Wilson insisted, his handwriting becoming less legible as his emotions intensified. _U R thinking of dumping me to protect me—don't. Please don't push me away! Don't need U to protect me! Risk I'm willing to take. I __love__ U!_

"I love you, too," House whispered, swallowing hard again. "That's why we can't…we can't be together anymore. I won't be the reason somebody kills you."

_No!_ Wilson wrote frantically. House leaned in and kissed Wilson's forehead again. Wilson grabbed him behind the neck, held him there.

"D'On't 'oo 'dis," Wilson pled, regardless of the pain, "'Eese!" Tears were stinging his eyes.

House pulled Wilson's hand away and straightened. He looked at the floor, his own eyes shining before turning and limping out of the bay, the curtain fluttering closed behind him. Wilson pounded the bed in frustration and pain, crying out throatily loud enough to bring a nurse to his bedside to check on him. He turned his head away from her, groaning in agony at the movement and squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to hold back his tears. At that moment Wilson wished that Boyko ape _had_ killed him.


	18. Chapter 18

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Eighteen

Wilson was asleep when Cuddy entered his room and sat down in a chair next to his bed. He found her sitting there when he awoke. He'd been admitted as Dr. Woolliskraft had told him would happen, and as soon as Cuddy caught wind of what had happened she had him placed in a private room. He'd been lucky. The head X-rays had come back clear of any signs of serious brain injury or fractures to his skull and jaw. It would take a while, but the swelling would settle down and the pain it caused Wilson to move his jaw would gradually subside. He did have the concussion to deal with, but there had been no sign of a bleed in or around his brain. His kidney had shown no further signs of serious damage as House had said, and he would know, after all; one of his specializations was in nephrology.

He was greatly hurt, but not surprised, to find that House wasn't in the room waiting for him to wake up as well. He recalled House ending their infantile relationship because he was afraid that if they continued to be lovers it would only be a matter of time before Dominika's boss would find out about them and Wilson would be hurt or killed. He was furious with House for unilaterally deciding that this was the best course of action to take, and in doing so breaking Wilson's heart. Tears welled up in his eyes and he was in two much pain to be bothered to attempt holding them back. He hoped anyone seeing them would interpret their presence as his reaction to physical pain.

Cuddy was out of the chair and at his side immediately, taking one of his hands and squeezing it encouragingly. Without making a big deal out of it she grabbed a facial tissue from a box on Wilson's bedside table and dried his tears.

"Good morning," She told him with a small smile.

"Wha' 'ime is i'?" he asked, babying his jaw. Cuddy seemed to understand him, and checked her watch.

"Seven-thirty-six in the morning," she told him. "House didn't call me until five o'clock and then I had to call up the nanny and ask her to come by a little early this morning so I could get here before work. How are you feeling, James? Much pain?"

" 'us' my 'aw," he replied the best he could. "A 'eh-hen."

"A seven," Cuddy clarified, "out of ten?"

Wilson nodded. The dean pressed the call button for the nurse, he knew, to order him his next dose of painkillers.

"Why isn't House here?" Cuddy asked him, frowning. "Normally he'd be watching over you like a mother hen. Did something happen between the two of you?"

Another tear slipped from Wilson's eye. He wished he could talk about the situation with someone but that was impossible. He dared not be overheard by unwanted ears telling anyone about House and him about the situation they were in. But, oh! He ached for someone to know and to comfort him! Better yet, he ached for House, yearning to feel his touch and hear him say that he'd been wrong and that they weren't over when they had just begun.

He answered Cuddy with a shake of his head in negation. "He ha' a wi' 'ow. He wi' 'Omi'ika."

"Please," Cuddy said with disdain, making a face. "Dominika is a live-in prostitute, not a wife. He should be here with you; you're his best friend."

Wilson wondered about that. Were they even friends anymore? If he couldn't have House as his partner, he absolutely did _not_ want to lose him as his friend and feared that might happen now. Was House going to push him away completely in his effort to protect him?

" 'ugs," Wilson told her, trying to cover for the truth. " 'icodin 'est h'rien' now."

His nurse arrived in response to Cuddy's call. She had anticipated his need for another shot of morphine and had brought it with her.

"He's in considerable pain," Cuddy told her. The nurse nodded, giving Wilson his shot in the hip, helping to straighten his pillows for him and otherwise making certain he was comfortable.

"His attending is Dr. Friesen," Nurse Chelsea told the Dean of Medicine. "He'll be down after breakfast to check on Dr. Wilson and determine how much longer, if at all, he'll be staying here."

"Thank you," Cuddy told her with a nod. Chelsea knew when she was being dismissed and quickly left them alone again, her work there done for the time being.

Wilson could feel the morphine begin to do its job. The pain in his jaw and back was easing, as was his headache, and he was feeling sleepy again.

Cuddy must have noticed his eyelids beginning to droop because she smiled down at him and then placed a kiss on his forehead. "Go back to sleep, James. I'll make certain you're well taken care of while you do."

He nodded; his eye lids felt like they were made of lead and he was feeling that comfortable fuzziness from the morphine take over his brain. Within a couple of seconds he fell back to sleep.

**~H/W~**

It took about four weeks for Wilson to feel like he was completely healed, physically anyway. He'd gone back to work a week after the attack, still bruised and sore but able to talk and move. Of course he had been fawned over by the nurses on his staff and had had to explain to his patients why he looked the way he did (he told them that he'd been mugged—it was close enough to the truth that he didn't feel guilty about it) and found himself cutting his days shorter than usual for a while, but for the most part had functioned normally—at work.

At home, alone in his loft apartment, he ate less and drank more, often waking up in the morning finding himself lying face down on the floor, often in his own vomit, where he'd fallen when he'd passed out. Fearful that he would forget to feed Sarah or miss her shots and end up killing her, he put an ad in the paper and found her a cat-loving family willing to take her, diabetes and all. He had to admit that watching her leave with her new owners in her cat carrier had brought tears to his eyes. Now he was _completely _alone again, but this was better for Sarah.

Somehow, he managed to keep functioning, keep getting up in the morning and dragging himself to work, though some days it was all he could do to keep himself from going for a liquid lunch at a bar and grill he knew of not too far from the hospital; lunch probably would have ended up being something with vodka in it.

House avoided Wilson like he was the plague, but watching him like a hawk when he thought the oncologist wasn't paying attention. He ate his lunch in his office, so Wilson stopped going down to the cafeteria and did the same thing. He felt isolated, lonely, and very depressed. House appeared to be distracted, irritable, and frequently absent from the hospital. His leg appeared to be paining him more, and he was popping pills constantly. Wilson suspected that they were no longer placebos but he had no proof of that and tried to figure out a way in which he could steal one to find out.

He was on his way to check on one of his breast cancer patients when he nearly ran into House at the elevator. House was stepping off onto the fourth floor, undoubtedly heading for his office, as Wilson was boarding, on his way to the ICU. He expected House to skirt around him and say nothing but this time he was mistaken.

"Hey," House said. Wilson let the elevator door close without him on it.

"Hey,' Wilson replied evenly. Despite the pain etched on House's face and the way he rubbed almost ceaselessly at his thigh, he looked damned good. His eyes were somehow bluer, his rakish hair sexier, his lips more kissable. _Distance makes the_ _heart grow fonder,_ Wilson fleetingly thought.

"Busy for lunch?" House asked him, furtively meeting his eyes. "There's a sale on Reuben sandwiches at the cafeteria today."

Wilson couldn't help but smile ever-so-slightly at that. "No there isn't."

House, caught, smirked self-deprecatingly. "No, there's not. Twelve thirty?"

Nodding, Wilson answered. "Sounds good. I'll meet you there." He was trying to sound cool, calm and collected but the truth was he felt almost giddy. This was the first sign of thawing between them and he couldn't help but hope that at very least their friendship may survive this, if nothing else.

House nodded then limped heavily away. Wilson watched him until he entered his office before boarding the next elevator going down. A small smile had found its way to his face and stayed there.

At lunch he arrived at the cafeteria just as House did. They went through the line together without saying much, Wilson paid (of course), and then they walked to their normal table in the far corner of the room where they were away from almost everyone else.

"Big fight's tonight," House said as he set his tray down and then sat, resting his cane against the seat of the chair between his legs. "Foley versus Zachary. Foley will win by judge's decision. I've already told my bookie to put me down for a hundred."

"Please," Wilson said, shaking his head as he sat down opposite House and peeled the plastic wrap off of his chef's salad. It was the first real food he'd eaten in weeks and he was surprisingly hungry. "Foley can't throw a punch to save his life. His left upper cut is pathetic. Zachary will win by KO by the third round."

"Not a chance," House responded, still chewing on his bite of sandwich. "What he lacks in power he makes up for in speed and agility. Zachary is built like a tank; he couldn't dodge and move if his life depended on it."

"Which it doesn't, because like a tank he'll run over Foley before he knows what hit him," Wilson retorted, enjoying House's competitive nature taking hold and his building indignity at Wilson's refusal to agree with him. His blue eyes were lit with interest, calculating odds, trying to figure out what Wilson was thinking.

"If he can't move he's a sitting target," House insisted, shaking a stolen French fry at him. "Foley will dance circles around him—Zachary won't get a chance to land a punch."

"Third round," Wilson insisted smugly before forking a piece of boiled egg into his mouth. This was feeling…good, comfortable, almost like it used to between them, Wilson noted to himself. He ached to be held by the man across the table from him but this was definitely better than being avoided by him altogether.

"You want to put your money where your mouth is?" House asked him, the corners of his mouth twitching upward ever so slightly.

_I'd rather put _you_ where my mouth is,_ Wilson thought wistfully. "Sure. Ten bucks on Zachary to win, twenty if it's by knock out."

"That's a pussy bet," House scoffed. "You bet like a girl."

"Fine," Wilson said, rising to the challenge. "Twenty-five to win, fifty by knock out."

"Not much better, but I'll take it," House told him. They stared at each other for a long time, tiny smiles on both of their faces. They both had missed this, missed each other.

"Greg—," Wilson began softly but House shook his head.

"I know what you're going to say," he told Wilson quietly, but didn't break the lock he had on Wilson's eyes, "so just…don't. It has to be this way. Let's just have lunch like friends, like we used to."

Wilson nodded, swallowing his disappointment. He tried for the rest of their meal to pretend like he was okay with going backwards, giving up on a relationship that for a few short weeks had brought him more joy than he'd ever experienced before. Maybe House could turn off his feelings like that, but Wilson couldn't. This was literally killing him. He ended up throwing out most of what was left of his salad.

They walked together back to their offices, not saying much. Usually they walked close enough that their shoulders almost brushed, even before they had admitted their feelings went beyond the platonic. Now, House kept a good foot and a half further away. It just felt wrong! They weren't only going back to the way things _were_, they were going back to the way things were _twenty years ago_. It was just too much for Wilson to take. When House turned into his office, Wilson followed him inside. House went to sit down and was surprised to see Wilson standing in front of him.

"What—?"

"I've had enough," Wilson told him, working hard to keep control over his emotions. "I'm ending it right here."

House frowned. "Our friendship?"

Wilson shook his head in frustration. "I'm going to Dominika and I'm going to tell her about us. I'm going to tell her that you haven't told me anything and—"

"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND!" House exploded, two terrified blue eyes flashing. In his periphery Wilson could see Foreman and Taub sitting in the DDx room adjoined to House's office; they looked up in surprise and interest at the sound of their boss shouting.

"No," Wilson answered sotto voce, lifting his chin defiantly. "You don't want me to be in danger? That's why you don't want to be with me? Then I'll put myself there and you won't have any more excuse for pushing me away."

House rose from his desk, rounding it. "You idiot! You think Dominika will believe that you know nothing? You might as well tell them that you're going to the Feds, too. That way you won't have to wait to be executed mafia-style; she'll kill you right there and then! You have to know that I'm not going to let you do that."

Wilson stepped closer to House, until he was no more than a foot away toe-to-toe. "How are you going to stop me? Hell, maybe I don't have to go to her—maybe she's listening in right now!" Wilson tilted his face toward the ceiling and said at a conversational volume, "If you're listening, I want you to know that House and I are lovers and—!"

House raised his cane high enough to hit Wilson in the shin with it—hard.

"Aww—ouch! Damn it!" Wilson cried out, bending over to grab his legs in pain. "House, what the _hell_—?"

"I told you that I'm not going to let you risk your life," House answered coldly but his eyes were flaring.

"So you'd rather cripple me instead?" Wilson demanded in astonishment; he was more than just a little pissed off.

"Bones heal," House hissed, "but the damage from a nine millimetre hollow-point to your brain doesn't! You could have been _killed_ that night in my apartment. I won't risk that happening to you again!"

"I wish I had been killed now that I've lost what we had!" Wilson finally yelled. Apparently the shouting got to be more than House's two minions' curiosity could handle and they knocked on the sliding glass door dividing House's office from the DDx room before opening it and stepping cautiously inside.

"We came to make certain that you two weren't killing each other," Foreman told House and Wilson. "I'd be surprised if they couldn't hear Wilson's agonized cry down in the lobby. You okay, Wilson?"

Wilson was still rubbing his shin. He stopped and then slowly straightened, nodding sheepishly. "Yeah."

"Personally I don't know what you two are arguing about," Taub told them, "and I don't care. Just keep it down unless you want Cuddy up here investigating."

"I was just leaving," Wilson told them, "I have someone I need to see anyway."

He headed for the door, half-expecting House to try to trip him with the handle of his cane around one of Wilson's ankles. When that didn't happen Wilson was mildly surprised. He headed to his office and locked the door behind him, then went to the balcony door and locked it, too. He hadn't been throwing around empty threats earlier. Going to his desk, Wilson sat down and picked up the phone, dialing House's apartment. It rang and rang with no answer. He left a message on the answering machine.

"Dominika, this is Dr. Wilson," he said into the phone, "I hope that you get this before House erases the message. You were right. House and I—"

Loud rapping on the glass door leading to the balcony echoed in Wilson's office and cut him off. He looked up, expecting to see House standing there and wasn't disappointed. House was glaring at him and when he caught Wilson's eye he shook his head slowly. The look of fear in his eye almost stayed Wilson. _Almost_.

"House and I are indeed lovers and he's told me everything," Wilson finished, still staring at House. "You and I need to talk."

House closed his eyes, looking as if he was in physical agony, and threw his head forward, his forehead smacking hard into the glass. He hit his head against the glass like that once more before unleashing his anger explosively by using his cane to shatter the clay pot of a decorative tree in one corner of Wilson's half of the balcony. That done, House limped quickly back to his side of the balcony and then into his office.

Wilson set the phone down, sighed, and then put his head down on his desk. _God_, he thought wearily, _I really need a goddamned drink._


	19. Chapter 19

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Nineteen

Apparently, House had left the hospital right after making a mess of Wilson's balcony. Not that that surprised the Chief of Oncology; he knew that House would try to intercept that message before Dominika could listen to it. It didn't matter, Wilson decided, because she would be hanging around the hospital at some point in time in which case he would be certain to say something to her then. If House wanted to run away from a relationship with him, Wilson was going to do his best to get rid of any legitimate excuses he may have for doing so.

That evening he stayed late trying to catch up on paperwork, but he felt anxious and cranky and by seven thirty had had enough and decided to head home. He walked to his car in the staff parking lot alone; it was just beginning to get dark, but once the sun started to set it would be dark in no time. He stopped at the liquor store on his way home and ran in to replenish his stock at home. When he came back out and got back into his car with his purchases he looked in the rearview mirror and thought he saw a familiar black sedan parked a couple of rows behind him.

Intrigued, he kept a look out for the vehicle, which coincidentally pulled out of the parking lot a few seconds after he did and drove in the same direction; the sedan hung back half a block and in the lane beside Wilson's almost the entire way back to the loft. A block away from Wilson's condo complex the sedan turned a corner and seemed to disappear. He parked his car in his stall in the condo's underground parking garage, wondering if he had actually been followed or if it had just been a coincidence or worse—his imagination.

Heading up to his loft on the elevator, the car stopped to take on a passenger; it was Nora, the woman both he and House had stupidly vied over, the one who had mistaken them for a gay couple back when House was living with him. At the time Wilson had vehemently argued with her that he and House were not lovers, and at that time they hadn't been. It was very ironic how things had turned out, after all. She carried a paper sack holding groceries; a French baguette stuck up out of the top.

"Hi, Nora," he said to her with a smile and polite nod. "How are you this evening?"

"I'm fine," she responded appropriately, smiling. "How are you?"

"Good," he lied, putting on his best persona. "Long day."

"I can imagine," she said with a nod, even though they both knew she couldn't. "So how is your girlfriend…Samantha , isn't it? I haven't seen her in a while."

It was a fishing question but Wilson didn't really mind. It was time he faced the stark truth of his life; he couldn't hide the fact that he was a pathetic loser that couldn't hold onto a relationship if his life depended upon it for much longer. It did cause his artificial confidence to slip a little, though.

"Sam and I are no longer together," he admitted. "She moved out a few months ago, actually."

Nora frowned sadly, and as far as Wilson could tell, it seemed to be genuine. "I'm sorry, James."

"Yeah, well," he shrugged, "it just wasn't meant to be."

The elevator stopped on Nora's floor and she made to get off but turned around in the doorway and held it open. "So how is Greg? I haven't seen him in ages, either."

"He's…," Wilson started but he couldn't finish before swallowing hard. He was quickly losing it and he didn't want Nora to see that—or did he? She appeared to be genuinely interested and it would be a relief to talk to someone who didn't have a vested interest in what was going on. "He's not doing so great right now."

"Oh," she responded, her eyebrows rising. "I'm sorry to hear that…James, are you certain _you're_ okay?"

Wilson was going to give her a glib answer but stopped just before the words left his mouth. For some reason he simply couldn't lie to her. "I—I…."

She put a hand on his forearm and squeezed comfortingly before removing it again. "Have you eaten yet? I was just about to make some shrimp alfredo …would you like to join me? You look like you could use an ear to listen and I wouldn't mind the company. Hm?"

He wanted to say both yes and to run away. Swallowing hard, Wilson replied, "That…would be nice, thank you."

"Great!" she replied, smiling. "Why don't you go drop off your parcels and change from work and then come back down when you're ready?"

"Sounds like a plan," he agreed with a nod and weak smile. She nodded and stepped off the elevator completely.

"See you in a little while," Nora told him before the door shut. Wilson sighed. It would be good to unload with someone other than Cuddy or Chase, both of whom had agendas of their own when it came to House.

The first thing he did upon entering the loft aside from taking off his jacket and setting his briefcase aside was to head to the kitchen with his purchases and pour himself two fingers of bourbon. He picked up the glass and realized that his hand was trembling slightly. Shrugging it off, he downed the booze without coming up for air and then headed to his bedroom to undress, have a quick shower, and then throw on a casual mocha polo shirt with an off-white 'T' underneath and a pair of khakis and sneakers.

He grabbed a bottle of Chardonnay and headed down to Nora's apartment.

**~H/W~**

"So here I am, a department head, chasing after this bolting retriever with a chicken in its mouth through the corridors of the hospital when I run into my boss giving potential donors a tour of her efficiently run, top grade medical facility," Wilson said, chuckling and waving his dessert fork about as he described the scene to his host. "Apparently security hadn't yet contacted her with news that Greg's Rhode Island Red was caught strutting and clucking in the corridor outside my office—the doubled clinic hours were worth it!"

Both he and Nora were laughing now as they sat in her living room enjoying cannoli and dark, slightly bitter coffee.

"You're lucky the two of you weren't fired!" she told him once her laughter had passed.

Wilson shook his head. "Cuddy wouldn't fire us for that. Believe me, we've given her better reasons over the years and she hasn't. Besides, the trouble of finding two new department heads and her guilt over dumping Greg like she did and his subsequent spiraling from it would prevent her from doing that."

"I still don't understand why Greg got involved with her like he did," she commented, setting her plate down onto the coffee table. "She certainly didn't seem to treat him very well after he got out of rehab."

Wilson's smile faded as guilt filled him. He'd drank over half of the bottle of wine he'd brought over dinner and his inhibitions had been lowered enough that he found it difficult to hide what he was really thinking and feeling from Nora. It didn't hurt that she really was quite a sympathetic listener and it was a pleasant change for him to be the one talking about his problems and being comforted instead of the one doing the listening and comforting.

"They had always been fond of each other," Wilson answered, setting his plate down as well and picking up his coffee mug, allowing the soothing warmth from the coffee inside of it to flow into his hands. "They had had a one night stand in college and neither forgot about it. House insists he was never in love with Cuddy, but she was better than being alone, and he was alone because of me."

"I don't understand," Nora told him.

Wilson took a sip of his coffee, barely tasting it. He set the mug down onto the coaster and sighed. "Greg and I have always had an odd friendship. It's been very intense yet not the most intimate in ways best friends usually are with each other. We never slapped each other on the back or shook hands—the unspoken rule was no intentional contact. We talked without really talking about anything, but still we, for the most part, understood each other better than anyone else in our lives understood us—which still wasn't very well. No matter what kind of garbage we threw at each other, we eventually got over with it and remained friends. It's pathological, really." He smiled self-deprecatingly at that. It quickly faded. "You probably won't believe me after the pranks House and I pulled on you before, but the truth is…we've always been a little more than just friends, but we were both so caught up in denial and repression that we wouldn't admit it. It was that denial that led to me kicking him out of the loft last year."

Nora's expression remained unchanged. "Go on," she encouraged carefully.

Sighing heavily, Wilson decided it was time to just throw caution to the wind. "I've known for years that my feelings for Greg were more than platonic, but I didn't want to feel that way so I denied it for a long time and then when I couldn't do that any longer I repressed them, ran away from them. When Greg ended up in the mental hospital I allowed myself to admit to myself that I was in love with him. That scared me…I knew that Greg was hetero and I was supposed to be, too, and if he found out the truth I was afraid it would destroy the friendship we had. I couldn't let that happen. When his psychiatrist approached me about having Greg move in with me because it would be safer for him during his recovery not to live alone I panicked. It was hard enough for me to deny how I felt with him living in his own apartment; I didn't know how I would be able to do it with him under the same roof.

"For the first couple of months, before we moved here, I subconsciously looked for reasons to kick him out because the more we were together, the more I…I wanted Greg. I found the stupidest reasons and told him to leave more than once but House knew I didn't really mean it and stayed."

He went on to tell her about the rest of that year and everything that had happened, including Cuddy leading House on and then springing Lucas on him causing him pain that led Wilson to want to seek revenge on House's behalf. He described the events surrounding his liver donation to Tucker and the way House had opposed it because if Wilson had died he would have been all alone, but also how House had shown up for him during the operation anyway. He described how buying the loft out from under Cuddy and Lucas was part of his revenge, and how Nora had come too close to comfort with her assumption that he and House were gay partners. He described how they seemed to grow closer and closer until Wilson nearly slipped up and revealed his true feelings for House with the purchase of the organ.

Wilson continued on to relate how he'd rushed into a relationship with Sam to save himself from slipping up again. "Less than a month later I asked Sam to move in with me. I knew that they hated each other no matter how well they pretended to get along when they were around me. I knew there was no way we could all live under one roof so I…asked Greg to leave."

"You're an idiot," she told him plainly.

"Tell me about it," Wilson agreed, not at all offended. "Not only was he hurt that I was paying people to keep him away from me but now I was really kicking him out so I could move in the same woman who had broken my heart twenty years before. He was…so depressed that he was about to commit suicide when Cuddy showed up at his place and told him that she was in love with him and prevented that from happening. A member of Greg's team stopped me when I was on my way out of the hospital and told me that Greg was extremely upset and he was worried that Greg might do something drastic but I was so intent on getting home to Sam to avoid the lecture I knew was coming for being late that I didn't even bother to call him to make certain that he was okay.

"He was desperate, looking for a lifeline, and Cuddy made herself available to him. That's when they hooked up."

Nora pondered what Wilson had just told her and he patiently remained silent as she did. He took a sip of his now tepid coffee and set it down.

"I thought she was already involved with the other guy?" Nora told him, puzzled. "You said they were planning on moving in together."

"They were," Wilson agreed. "In fact, that same morning Lucas had proposed to Cuddy and she'd accepted. Hours later she dumped Lucas and ran immediately over to House, took advantage of his fragile state of mind and they ended up in bed."

"I guess Greg was so desperate to feel wanted that it didn't occur to him that a woman who was callous enough to get engaged and then dump her fiancé all in the same day to literally run straight into the arms and bed of another man would be just as capable of doing the same thing to _him_ when someone else came around," Nora summarized accurately

Wilson nodded. What she said made perfect sense, only as far as Wilson knew there hadn't been another man that Cuddy had left House for. Cuddy had claimed to love Lucas, too, but had had no difficulty dropping him like a hot potato because she'd decided that she'd changed her mind and loved House. No wonder she wasn't as broken up as House was about their relationship ending—she was already old hat at loving and leaving when the mood struck her. Not only were he and Greg jerks, but Cuddy ranked right up there with them.

He described to Nora how dismal House and Cuddy's relationship had been.

"He couldn't do anything right and she wouldn't admit to ever being in the wrong, Wilson concluded. "She kept Greg walking a razor's edge of anxiety and that's damned hard to navigate when you're already lame."

"His addiction?" Nora asked, following along. Wilson nodded.

"He gave up caring about his career and his own interests in order to devote himself to whatever it would take to make Cuddy happy and keep them together but the more he tried, the harsher and more demanding she was of him. And me? Well, I kept cheering them on, siding with Cuddy, of course. I wanted House to be happy, and I mistakenly believed that he would be with Cuddy.

"When she was sick he took a single Vicodin to be able to deal with his fear of losing her and for that, she broke up with him—or, at least that was the excuse she used, anyway. That night he took more Vicodin and relapsed completely. I watched him begin to spiral into self-destruction again, it hurt and scared me more than I can describe. Sam had dumped me as well and here we both were, single again and miserable. I still couldn't get the courage to tell him how I felt, partially because I was convinced he was spiraling because of his intense love for Cuddy and I didn't want to make things even worse for him. But, after he pulled a crazy dangerous stunt that could have gotten him killed we argued and in the heat of the moment I…kissed him. God, Nora, I would have done anything to help him back to sobriety, I would have stuck with him through the withdrawal and detox and rehab to have him as mine."

"That's so incredibly romantic!" Nora nearly squealed.

"No, it wasn't," Wilson told her. "Greg kissed me back but then pushed me away because he was afraid we would end up breaking up and lose our friendship as well and he didn't want to risk that. Greg told me that we couldn't be together because it would end up driving us apart for good. Then he told me to leave."

"Oh, James," she commiserated, placing a hand on his arm comfortingly. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not finished," Wilson informed her with a sad smile. "A short time later, he gave in and we…well, you know."

"You made love?" she guessed hesitantly. Wilson nodded, blushing again. She grinned. "But that's wonderful! I'm so happy for the two of you! So why do seem so depressed?"

Wilson sighed. "You're not going to believe any of the rest I tell you, but I swear it's true, every bit of it."

"Just tell me," Nora insisted, "and let me decide whether I believe it or not!"

So he did, he told her everything up to that day, only omitting the part about his continued heavy drinking. When Wilson was done he waited with bated breath for Nora's reaction; she'd remained silent as he had told her the story, reserving judgment until he was done. Now it was time for the verdict.

Without a word Nora leaned forward and pulled Wilson into a hug. That was too much for him to handle, and he began to tear up, fighting the urge to weep. She believed him, felt for him and wanted to comfort him. It felt so good to have her hug him—not in a sexual way; his desire was for House alone now—but in a comforting, compassionate way. He closed his eyes and a couple of tears ran down his face. It had been a long time since someone had taken the time to console and encourage him; it was like a tonic for his soul.

When the embrace finally broke, Nora looked Wilson in the red-rimmed eyes and said sternly. "Greg is in terrible danger, and you are too. I've read articles about the Russian mafia and they've taken their training manual from the KGB. You have to contact the Federal authorities right away!"

Wilson shook his head. "No. No! I can't, Nora! If I did that and they found out they would kill both Greg and me. I'm being followed everywhere I go—I can sense it. A month ago I startled one of Greg's contacts when I went over to his apartment to spend the night with him and ended up in the hospital. It was then that Greg broke things off with me, in order to protect me. It won't work—I was followed home today—but he's convinced it will. I know he loves me and still wants to build a life with me but until this is all over and they leave him—us—alone he won't even consider it. My fear is that it never will be over, that they'll keep coming back to make him pay up on a debt that will never go away."

"That's exactly why you have to contact the Feds," Nora insisted. "They'll know what to do to get you and Greg out of this, and they'll protect you."

"Really?" Wilson responded, close to sneering. "And how exactly are they going to accomplish that? The Witness Protection Program? That would be great—we could move away and assume new identities—_and never practice medicine again_. Greg is internationally acclaimed for his skill as a diagnostician. He's spoken at conferences around the globe, been published in the most prestigious of medical journals—a man of his genius can't hide for long doing the thing he does best. I'm no slouch, either. I'm being asked all the time to be the keynote speaker at conferences, to consult for doctors around the world and I've published a few well-read articles of my own. There is no way we could practice under assumed names and remain undiscovered for long. Not practicing medicine, not having his puzzles to solve, would drive House insane.

"Besides that, Greg could get into legal trouble for just associating with these people. No…no, Nora, there's no other way. He has to see this through all the way if he is to ever have a chance of things returning to normal and for him and me to be together again. If he fails…God, if he fails…!"

Nora was silent, obviously having no idea what to say. There really wasn't anything she could say, Wilson knew, that would make any difference to his situation, but having her there to listen was help enough.


	20. Chapter 20

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Twenty

Wilson strode quickly toward the DDx room, a smile on his face. He felt good; not great, but for the first morning in days—weeks?—he wasn't hung-over and having someone to talk to the night before had help relieve a lot of the stress he'd been burdened down with lately. His heart still ached for House and worried about his safety but he didn't feel like he was about to collapse in the middle of the hospital lobby with some kind of nervous breakdown. Perhaps he should consider seeing his shrink again; he'd quit shortly before taking up with Sam again, thinking he would have her as a safe place to fall when life got tough. Boy had that been a delusion! Talking to someone without judgment had been a healing balm; perhaps temporary, but Nora had told him her door was open if he ever needed to talk or simply want friendly company.

He was also pleased with himself because he'd won his bet with House over who would win the boxing match last night, the one he hadn't watched live because he was having dinner with Nora. He'd watched it on TIVO before going to bed, and now it was his turn to collect fifty bucks from his arrogant tight-wad of a friend.

House was standing at the coffee station and his team was seated at the conference table when he barged into the DDx room without announcing himself first. The first thing he did when all eyes turned to look at him was make a 'gimme' gesture at House.

"**Fifty bucks!**" Wilson told House triumphantly. God, it felt good to be the one who was right for once! "**Pay up.**" He began to dance in place as if he were a receiver in the super bowl who had caught the Hail Mary pass to win the championship. He completed a three-sixty to face House again, noticing the amused and slightly confused expressions on the team members' faces and not caring. "**Let's go. Let's go.**" He wiggled his gimme fingers at House again.

House looked at him over the rim of his coffee mug and Wilson saw annoyed amusement there but when House answered him he was serious. "**Bet's off. Fight was fixed.**"

Wilson spread his arms open as if to ask, _'What are you talking about?'_

"**That punch barely touched him,**" House elaborated in response to the unspoken question.

Foreman caught on to what they were talking about and asked House, scoffing, "**You bet on Foley to beat Zachary?**"

"**Speed beats power… unless speed has been paid to speedily take a dive,**" House defended confidently.

Wilson mentally rolled his eyes. Leave it to House to try to Welch on a bet that he had obviously lost fair and square. "**He touched him enough to put him on the canvas and the official counted him out, which means you officially owe me… 50 bucks.**" He wasn't certain why, but Wilson was really enjoying this win and began his victory dance again. Maybe this was going to be a good day—he certainly needed one.

"**We bet on a sporting event. That was not sporting. Less than 30 seconds. That was barely even event-y.**" House was determined not to lose this argument and fork over the money he owed him. How typical. It was that stubbornness that drove Wilson crazy—and was part of what he loved about House, though he would never admit that.

"**Okay, here's what I saw. You lost and I won,**" Wilson insisted, just as stubbornly.

"**Yeah, well, you can take that to your grave. You're not taking my 50 bucks.**"

"**Prove it. Prove it or pay up. You got one day. And don't make me send my boys out looking for you,**" Wilson taunted, gesturing toward House's team as being his 'boys', including Thirteen who was finding this immensely amusing. He headed for the door to get back to his office and back to work but stopped and looked back. He waved his finger warningly, pointing it at House's team members individually, and said quietly, almost conspiratorially, "**What? All right.**" With that he did leave the room, hearing a snicker follow him out. He didn't care. Any victory over House, who was usually right and the winner of their bets, was worth celebrating and crowing over.

House needed to be put in his place from time to time—besides, it was their way, House and him. He wanted to generate some normality between them, because things had been so unreal for too long, and Wilson suspected wearily that the situation was only going to continue to spiral out of control.

**~H/W~**

"**Ha! Proof.**"

Wilson jerked his head up, startled, when his office door was thrown open without warning and House marched in triumphantly. Seeing that it was him, Wilson sighed silently. He hadn't seen House again all morning and had assumed that he was busy with his team trying to solve his most recent puzzle concerning the lady bomb-maker case Cuddy had forced onto him. Obviously, House had been busy trying to solve a different puzzle, and save himself having to pay out what he owed Wilson, leaving the less interesting one for his team to fumble through on their own.

All in all, it was very House, and that brought Wilson a feeling of optimism in spite of his best friend's twisted priorities.

House had his cellphone open with a picture of Foley's face on it and shoved it in Wilson's face to look at. From what he could tell, the boxer looked perfectly fine…oh.

"**Just because he wasn't hit in the face—**" Wilson scoffed but was quickly interrupted.

"**Look at his pupils,**" House insisted. "**He has _anisocoria_, which, given his age, the adrenaline surge of the fight, the fact that he's still alive means he was tachycardic. He has Wolff-Parkinson-White syndrome.**"

Wilson still didn't see the relevance. Medical condition or no medical condition, Foley still lost and House still owed him 50 bucks. Now, if he wanted to pay him back in _special favors _rather than money, Wilson was good with that…

"**The bet was on who would win, not who would live the longest,**" the oncologist threw back at him drily.

"**If he's physically unable to continue because of a preexisting illness, then it's technically a 'no contest,' which means all bets are off,**" House declared. It amazed Wilson to see the lengths House would go to, to forfeit on a bet. House had a pathological aversion to admitting that he was wrong about anything.

"**You know that just because I was right about this one fighter doesn't make you any less of a man?**" Wilson eyes sparked a little with amusement and something else.

"**Actually, it would, if you were right,**" House retorted. Wilson ignored the slight as if it had never been said. He knew House didn't actually mean it, he was just being House.

"**Then as I said earlier, prove it,**" Wilson told him. "**And one possibly Photoshopped cell phone pic does not a diagnosis make.**"

House huffed and headed for the door to leave when he stopped and turned back. "Where were you last night? I tried calling you and you didn't answer. I thought you may have been eliminated by your stupid stunt earlier in the day so I went over to the loft to check on you and you weren't there. I was…curious."

Wilson knew that 'curious' was code for 'concerned', could see it in House's eyes and the tension of the muscles in his jaw, neck, and shoulders. He had no reason to, nor intention of, lying to him.

"Nora invited me over to her place for dinner last night," Wilson informed him. "I was gone from my place for about three hours or so. Had I known you might stop by I would have at least left you a note." Wilson knew that he hadn't done anything wrong having dinner with Nora the night before…so why did he suddenly feel guilty?

Perhaps it was due to the jealous, hurt look that flashed across House's eyes and the slight furrow of his brow upon hearing that. "Well, that didn't take very long," House said cynically, an edge to his otherwise flat voice.

"What didn't?" Wilson asked just before he clued into _why_ House looked the way he did. _Shit! He thinks I'm sleeping with Nora or at least wanting to._ House couldn't have been more wrong and Wilson wanted him to know that.

"We end our relationship and you immediately seek out a pretty blonde to replace me—"

"No!" Wilson said, rising quickly from his chair and rounding the desk, approaching him. "You've got it wrong! I've been…I've been stressed to the point where I don't know whether I'm coming or going—worried sick about you, hurting over being dumped—"

"And you figured Nora would help you release some of your 'tension' and soothe your broken heart," House finished for him, his eyes and voice becoming cold, stoic. "I understand perfectly." House swung the door open but before he could step through it Wilson slammed it shut again and stood between it and his best friend.

"You understand nothing!" Wilson snapped, swallowing hard, trying to think fast, find just the right words to say to disarm the situation and convince the man he loved more than life that he hadn't begun an affair with Nora and wouldn't be in the future. "I've been falling to pieces without you! She saw how depressed I was and felt sorry for me**.**"

House shrugged, trying and failing to completely appear disinterested. "Whatever works, eh Jimmy?"

"Shut up!" Wilson shouted suddenly. It surprised both House and him, and House took an involuntary half-step backward. _Good,_ Wilson thought with grim satisfaction. _Maybe now I have his attention!_ "I have _no_ interest in starting anything with Nora. I'm not the slightest bit attracted to her anymore. The only one I want to be with is you; I don't want anyone else. Last night I met her in the elevator when I arrived at the condo after driving home from the hospital. She could tell that I was upset about something and invited me over to have dinner so I could talk and get it all off my chest. All we did was eat and _talk_, Greg. That's it, and that's all it will ever be because if I can't have you then…then I'd rather have no one. I'm at the point where I don't think I'll ever be interested in anyone but you again. Now you can choose to believe that or not but it's the truth. I love you, Greg, and _only _you."

House stared him down, unreadable eyes searching Wilson's to see if they held honesty or duplicity. Wilson held his breath unwittingly, refusing to avert his eyes for a split second. He needed House to believe him because it was the absolute truth.

"People don't change," House told him, his voice just a little louder than a whisper. He pushed Wilson to the side and stormed out of the office, slamming the door shut behind him. Wilson fleetingly considered running after him, forcing House to listen to reason, but he didn't. All that would do was embarrass and anger him; House would then dig in his heels and refuse to listen to what he had to say out of principle, if nothing else.

His lack of trust in Wilson hurt—a lot. He knew he had history working against him, but he thought he'd managed to move past that and that House had seen that. Obviously, he'd been wrong. Wilson looked at the mountain of paperwork on his desk and simply couldn't stomach the idea of trying to finish it now. It was lunch time, he decided, even though it was already two and he'd had lunch. He removed his lab coat, grabbed his jacket with his car keys in the pocket, and called it a day, not even bothering to let anyone else know that he was leaving, or where he could be found.

**~H/W~**

The next day Wilson dragged himself to work, sick as all get out from yet another night of binging. He'd stopped at a bar on his way home from the hospital and couldn't remember anything that happened after the sixth shot of whiskey. Somehow he'd gotten home, because he awoke at four in the morning to puke before passing out again on his bathroom floor and then awoke at nine when he noticed that he'd pissed himself and it was feeling cold against his skin.

He knew he still hadn't completely slept the bender off, and probably shouldn't have driven himself to work. Hell, he probably shouldn't have even tried to work, but he refused to let a night of drinking keep him from doing his job; that would be a dangerous precedent to set.

Nobody appeared to notice, as he crossed the lobby of the hospital to get to the elevator, that he was shuffling ever so slightly; if they had, they hadn't said anything or stared at him strangely. He was glad that he only had two patient appointments that morning and then rounds and clinic duty in the afternoon; he wasn't sober enough to be performing any kind of biopsies or other surgical procedures and he knew it. When Sandy accosted him outside his office to talk to him about the appointments he'd skipped out on and Cuddy's visit to oncology only to discover that her chief oncologist had left really early for the day, she didn't say anything to him about the fact that he was still slurring ever-so-slightly and, for all his attempts to shower and brush away the smell of alcohol, still stank like a brewery. She did ask him if he was feeling well, which he'd quickly assured her that he was, but that was all.

Satisfied that his little secret was secure, he locked his office door, lay down on his sofa, and took a little two hour nap. He woke again when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder shaking him awake. He opened his eyes to see Chase standing over him, frowning. What had happened? What was wrong? How had Chase gotten into his office? That last question was answered when he felt a draft and looked in the direction of the balcony to find the door slightly ajar.

"It's about time," Chase told him. "Your PA came by House's office to ask him if he'd seen you; he wasn't there but I was. I managed to get her to tell me that you had come to work this morning drunk and she didn't want to get you into trouble but she was concerned when she received a call to inquire about your whereabouts when you missed the department head meeting."

Wilson slowly sat up, his head pounding and his stomach churning. He could barely remember anything that had happened earlier that morning. What he could remember shamed him, and he blushed in humiliation. He'd driven while intoxicated and had come to work drunk—a new all-time low. Wilson rubbed his face with his hands. What the hell was he doing to himself?

"Are you willing yet to admit that you have a drinking problem?" Chase asked him sternly, looking strangely like House in his mannerisms just then.

Wilson was not, could not. To own up to that would be to admit that he was a loser, a complete failure and disgrace and he simply couldn't face that prospect. He said nothing to Chase, rising from the sofa and heading to his desk where he sat down and then quickly located a bottle of Aspirin. House-like, he popped a couple of the tablets into his mouth and forced them down his throat dry since he didn't have any liquid of any kind available to him just then.

"I made a mistake," was all Wilson was willing to admit to, refusing to look Chase in the eye as he busied himself with organizing the files on his desk.

"Funny," Chase returned, stepping over to the desk, looking down at Wilson, "I made a mistake, too. I've waited too long to act and now you're further down the road than I had anticipated. So I'm acting on this now. Either you get yourself some help and stop drinking or I'll report this incident to Cuddy. Coming to work drunk is inexcusable and could have caused your patients danger, as well as yourself. Don't let House drag you to hell with him. I don't want to rat you out, so do something about this today." He pulled a card out of his lab coat pocket and dropped it on the desk in front of Wilson.

"What's this?" Wilson asked, picking up the business card with a slightly tremulous hand and taking a closer look. It was a card for Alcoholics Anonymous with a local and 1-800 number on it.

"It's a start," Chase told him. "I'll go with you if you feel uncomfortable alone—they have a meeting tonight at St. Paul parish."

"Do I look Catholic to you?" Wilson asked him, trying to deflect with levity. He wasn't getting anywhere with the Australian, though.

"They take everyone, no matter one's race, religion, gender or creed," Chase told him mirthlessly. "I'm serious, Wilson."

"I'm _not_ an alcoholic!" Wilson told him irritably. This was getting ridiculous already. "So I'm _not_ going to AA—end of discussion. Now if you don't mind, I have a patient appointment to prepare for." He opened a file folder and pretended to begin reading. It was Chase's cue to leave, but House's minion missed it, not budging from where he stood over him.

"You have until the end of the week to get yourself help," Chase informed him, "or I go to Cuddy—and if I hear about you coming to work again with so much as a hangover again, I'm going straight to her with the news."

With that, Chase did leave, closing the door a little harder than was absolutely necessary. Wilson sighed. Between him and House, Wilson was going to have to replace that poor, abused door before long. He stared at it musingly. Chase meant well, but his concern was unnecessary and becoming annoying. Wilson had enough to deal with without having to add Chase and his threats to the mix. With a sigh, he turned his attention to the file and really did begin to go over it—Mrs. Latham was due to arrive for her appointment in ten minutes.

An hour later Wilson was visited by a visibly frustrated Foreman, who barged in without knocking, too. What was this—did everybody think that they could just enter without knocking and being invited in? Wilson decided that he had to start locking his office door when he was inside as well as outside.

The neurologist walked up to Wilson's desk, pulled out his wallet and pulled out two twenties and a ten, throwing them onto the desk in front of him. Wilson looked at the money, quizzical.

"**Tell him you admit he's right. Let's get him back to work,**" he told Wilson.

Wilson didn't want Foreman's money—the point was for House to finally have to admit that he had been wrong and pay up accordingly. Besides, Foreman had always rubbed him wrong, and Wilson was still annoyed at him for just barging in. Only House was allowed to do that…kind of. Wilson wanted to get rid of House's would-be usurper so he could get back to work.

"**If he's ignoring you, it's because he trusts you,**" Wilson told him, straight-faced. Foreman gave him a 'who do you think you're kidding' look.

"**No, it's not.**"

Wilson sighed silently. Of course it wouldn't be that easy to get rid of him. "**No, it's not, but he does.**"

"**Thanks,**" Foreman responded sarcastically, "**I feel warm inside. Right now I'm debating which bad idea I should pretend is a good idea and force everybody to implement.**"

"**I think this is good for him,**" Wilson told him. It was only a half-lie; he _hoped_ this was a good sign of House coming out of the depression he'd been suffering from seeking out puzzles of all kinds to solve. Wilson couldn't help but secretly doubt that, though.

Foreman looked at Wilson like he'd lost his mind. **"Obsessing over a bet is good? And doing his actual job, treating actual patients, that's bad?**"

Wilson tried to explain what he meant, "**House only doing what House wants is the only way he can function. Since the breakup, he's been seeking out crazier and crazier things to do because they're crazy. This is — well, it's not crazy.**"

When House was with Cuddy, Wilson's mind added silently, she kept him on a short leash. If he wanted her love and approval then he had to do what she wanted him to do and had to sacrifice his own desires. Now that he was 'free' of her controlling influence (technically anyway), he could pursue what interested him again. That had to be a healthy sign…right?

"**No, just irresponsible and possibly dangerous,**" Foreman said snidely, judgmentally. He wasn't earning bonus points in Wilson's books, but there was at least some truth to what he said.

"**By House standards, it's dull,**" Wilson argued, projecting calmness he didn't feel. "**This he's doing just because he's interested. I think House getting back to doing… stupid House stuff for stupid House reasons is the best thing that could happen to him.**"

"**I'll go explain that to the patient,**" Foreman retorted, grumbling.

Wilson didn't care what he did so long as he left—now. He picked up the 50 dollars and handed it back to Foreman, signaling that as far as he was concerned their conversation was over. Foreman snatched it back from him and then stormed out of Wilson's office very much the same way he'd stormed in.

Wilson watched him go, and his façade of nonchalance disappeared, leaving behind only concern. He decided that while he was remembering to lock his office door, he would commit to memory the need to talk to House about his obsession over this fighter, too. Sighing softly, he set back to work—but didn't get a whole lot more done. His mind was too busy trying to come up with what House might be up to now. One would think being given a legitimate case to solve as well as secretly working on a diagnosis for some king-pin threatening House and Wilson's lives would be enough to keep him occupied and out of trouble.

_Yeah, right!_Wilson told himself cynically, shaking his head at himself.


	21. Chapter 21

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Twenty-one

Wilson was on his way out when he saw Thirteen leaving the DDx room headed for the elevator as well. She looked angry, which was surprising and discouraging since she seemed to be almost as adept at hiding her true feelings as House was.

"Remy, hold up," he called as she was stepping onto the elevator. She held the door for him. He jogged in carrying his jacket over one arm and his briefcase swung by the other. "Thank you. Did you talk to him, find out what the hell is going on?"

They both knew they were talking about House. She nodded, and he frown deepened. "I did. I got there in time to see him cooking a fix and injecting it into his arm. It's not the first time he's done it; he's got several tracks from previous injections."

Wilson felt the floor fallout from beneath him, or so it seemed, and he must have looked like he was going to faint because Thirteen grabbed his shoulder to steady him. House was shooting heroin. Fuck the sugar pills, he went straight to the really bad stuff skipping the Vicodin. It was his worst fear being fulfilled.

"Heroin," he said softly, shaking his head. He wanted to go see House and knock some sense into that blockhead of his.

"No, not heroin," Thirteen told him quickly. "I thought that at first but I was wrong. The idiot is taking an experimental drug still in rat trials that's supposed to regrow muscle. He's hoping it will regrow the muscle that had been abraded after the infarction."

"You mean this stuff is still in animal testing?" Wilson asked in amazement.

"Isn't that what I just said?"

The elevator doors opened and they both stepped off, checking out at the main desk before crossing the lobby to get to the exit. Wilson's mind was spinning and he didn't know exactly what to think or feel about this. Of course he was relieved to learn that House wasn't shooting heroin but using an experimental drug not yet approved for human use? It was insane! Had House lost his mind again?

Or was this one of those bizarre activities House had warned him about?

"He told you this himself?" Wilson asked, "You're certain he isn't lying about what's in the syringe?

"Yes, he told me himself and yes, I'm positive he was telling the truth," Thirteen told him. "I told him he was an idiot. He says that this drug, Compound CS-804, is supposed to be a wonder drug and he didn't want to up his Vicodin intake and end up hallucinating again so he's counting on this stuff to regrow the muscle in his leg and end the pain."

"Regrowing muscle won't stop the nerve pain, even if this drug works and doesn't end up killing him in the process. Right now, his pain is exacerbated by his depression," Wilson told her, his voice expressing clearly his frustration and fear.

Thirteen nodded and stopped walking to look him in the eye. "After I left House's place I did a little investigating into this drug. The results on rats look promising so far, but the protocol is far from being finished. Also, some of the side-effects the rats are displaying include excessive thirst, mild tachycardia, agitation, and aggression. House has been drinking water constantly. He hasn't been around the hospital long enough to notice if the other side-effects are happening to him."

Wilson shook his head. He'd seen the agitation and aggression earlier. He thought he knew why House was taking this kind of risk, and it wasn't to obey Dominika or her leaders—at least, that wasn't the only reason.

"Thanks for telling me, Remy. I think I need to stop by his place on my way home."

"Good luck," Thirteen told him jadedly. "You may be his best friend, but I don't think even you will be able to convince him to stop taking it."

Wilson knew that she was probably right about that. His stomach churned, making him feel like throwing up. He parted from Thirteen once they reached the staff parking lot.

**~H/W~**

Wilson reached House's apartment and knocked heavily on the door. There was no response from within, but House wasn't fooling him. "**Experimental drugs?**" Wilson shouted through the door, not caring if House's neighbors heard him.

The door swung open almost immediately; House stood there staring at him, his jacket slung over his arm. He was on his way out.

"**That's unfair 'cause at one point, even Vicodin was an experimental drug. I have to go.**" House told him, making to push past him but Wilson wasn't about to be dismissed that easily. He wasn't going to stand by and watch House slowly kill himself—Wilson loved him too much to do that. He pushed past House to enter the apartment.

"**Well, unless you're going to do your job, it can wait,**" Wilson announced seriously.

"**I'm going to do my job.**"

"**I'll give you a lift,**" Wilson responded, calling his bluff.

House turned back into the living room and Wilson turned to face him. He couldn't get over how tired House looked. Was that a side-effect of the drug as well?

"**I'll give you two minutes. But first, I'm gonna tell you that I'm off the drugs and you'll feel silly 'cause you've got nothing to say for two minutes.**" House draped his jacket over the sofa.

"**Hmm. Why are you off them?**" Wilson inquired, not the least bit convinced. He wasn't certain he could believe anything House told him anymore.

Looking genuinely disappointed, House said, "**Because they don't work.**"

_Okay, maybe that was the truth._ "**Why were you on them?**" Wilson looked him in the eye, expecting another lie because House never liked to explain himself.

"**Because they come in banana flavor. You know the answer,**" House said sarcastically, his blue eyes flaring.

Wilson did, but he knew that House would argue with him and deny that what he said was the real reason. House's fragile ego couldn't bear to admit when he was wrong, even with Wilson.

"**You think fixing your leg will fix your life,**" Wilson said simply. By the expression that flashed momentarily in House's eyes Wilson knew that he'd hit the bull's-eye. It was a ridiculous belief; House's issues went much deeper than the pain in his leg or the limp he now walked with. He wanted to pull House into an embrace and comfort him but knew that there was no way House would go for that.

"**I think that my life will be somewhat better if part of my life, specifically my leg, is somewhat better,**" House argued, surprising Wilson when he didn't deny the idea outright. There was vulnerability coming off of House, and he was trying his hardest to repress it.

"**You think all your problems are your leg,**" Wilson pointed out to him but before he could say more, House spoke up.

"**And you're here to tell me that no matter how depressed I may be, it's not enough.**"

_I'm here to love you, you dummy! Can't you see that?_ Wilson thought before verbally responding, "**I think you want everything to be physical, tangible, simple. You want unhappiness to have a cure. House, you obviously—!**"

But House was no longer listening to him. He'd picked up his jacket, walked past Wilson heading for the door, and cut him off sharply, saying, "**I hate that word. I have to go now. Actually, I don't, but it would be rude to walk out without saying anything.**" He stormed out of the apartment, not even bothering to slam the door behind him.

Wilson's first impulse was to run after him but he stopped himself. Things were tense between them anyway and he didn't want to make things worse; it was bad enough House had decided they couldn't be lovers; Wilson couldn't lose him as a friend.

He was about to leave the apartment when a thought occurred to him. Wilson wanted to believe that House was off the opiates, but if he was willing to risk his health taking experimental drugs why would he worry about the risks that came with Vicodin? Without House there he could find House's stash of sugar pills and ascertain for himself whether or not they were actually sugar.

Wilson thought back to where he knew House had stashed his drugs out of sight. Some of the places were obvious, some weren't. One place he remembered was in a box on the mantle of his fireplace…yes, there it was. Wilson went to it and lifted the lid. Sure enough there was a bottle inside. He took it out and opened it, emptying one into his palm. Swallowing hard, Wilson popped the pill into his mouth and bit down.

Bitter. He spat the pill out into his hand. He'd been lied to and like a fool he'd believed House. Or maybe House had been on sugar pills when he demonstrated the one to Wilson but had started taking the real thing sometime after that. Either way, one thing was certain: House was back on drugs. Disappointment and anger welled up inside of him until he couldn't hold it back any longer. Angrily he threw the pill bottle into the fireplace, watching it split apart and spill out its contents. Wilson stormed for the door, kicking an end table over along the way and slamming the door on his way out.

**~H/W~**

He didn't go straight home but rather stopped at a bar within walking distance of his condo building and got hammered first. The bartender took his keys after cutting Wilson off and then offered to call him a cab or someone else to pick him up and drive him home. Wilson didn't wait for that, leaving the bar while the bartender was on the phone.

He could barely walk much less walk straight or make any sense out of the street signs or fixed visual clues and landmarks. Still, he did know which direction to go in and only by fluke or luck did he make it to the condo. He managed to get into the building and even took the elevator to the right floor but when he stepped off into the corridor he got confused. The walls were rippling like waves on the water and the floor seemed to be slanted a little to his right. Which direction—left or right? He had no idea…but he had to pee like nobody's business. He decided to try heading left and was pleased when he saw his apartment number on the door. The problem was, he couldn't open the door because it was locked and his apartment key was on the same ring as his car key which was back at the bar.

"Shit," Wilson slurred, staring at the three doorknobs in front of him. Now where was he going to pee? He wondered if his neighbor was home and would let him use the bathroom there. It couldn't hurt to ask, could it? He staggered down the corridor, bouncing off the wall a couple of times before reaching the door. He tried to push the buzzer but kept missing the button by as much as a foot on one attempt. Giving up on that he banged on the door with his fist. When after several tries no one answered, he wandered aimlessly, uncertain what to do. If he didn't get to a toilet right away he was going to piss his pants, not that it would be the first time he'd ever done that while drunk, and at least this time House wouldn't there to witness it and laugh his ass off.

_House._

Wilson reached his door again and leaned back against it before sliding along its surface until his backside was planted on the floor, sobbing at the thought of his best friend, his lost love. That's when he saw it—the potted plant in the corner of the corridor where it ended just past his place. Could he? Naw, he shouldn't…but he really did have to go and at least it would be better than whizzing in his pants or against the wall.

Wiping the tears and snot onto his jacket sleeve, Wilson decided to go for it. The problem was, now that he was down, he didn't think he could get himself back up to his feet. His brain took him a while to come to the conclusion that he could try to crawl over to the plant instead. Once it did he got onto his hands and knees and crawled in the general direction of the plant and eventually he did reach it; now, to get his dick high enough to piss into the pot, not just at it. He tried to pull himself up to his knees but only ended up pulling the plant and pot over onto himself, covering him and the floor with soil and damaged branches.

That brought on another bout of sobbing. He was so pathetic! It was no wonder he couldn't help House; he couldn't even manage to piss in a pot! He allowed himself to collapse onto the floor, his tears mixing with potting soil to make mud on his cheeks. He didn't care. With that thought he allowed himself to relieve himself where he lay. After the tears subsided he knew he had to call someone to help him.

Wilson managed to pull his phone out of his pocket and bring up his list of contacts on it. He couldn't see straight enough to read the names but fortunately he had pictures of the people right next to their names. He blearily looked down the list. At the top was House, of course. There was no way he could call him, not when he was like this. Besides, he doubted his friend would even answer the phone if he knew it was Wilson calling. He looked at Cuddy's picture and nixed that possibility as well. It wasn't a good idea to call one's boss when too plastered to stand up. He saw Chase's picture and was tempted, but eventually decided he couldn't call him either. If he did, Chase would tell Cuddy about just how much Wilson really was drinking and then drag his butt to AA every fucking night. He finally decided to call Thirteen. House seemed to trust her a great deal and she didn't strike Wilson as the type to tattle on others if it meant they were going to get into shit.

He pressed her picture and then the green telephone on his screen before putting the phone to his ear. It rang once on the end before it was picked up. "Dr. Hadley."

For a half-second he considered hanging up but didn't because he knew he couldn't sleep in the corridor all night covered in piss and mud. "Remy? I's Wilson. I need yer help."

The voice that responded sounded confused. "Wilson? Are you drunk?"

He nodded his head, then realized that she couldn't see him and answered, "P-plastered. I made I' home but I left my key at—at the b-bar. 'M lying in piss and dirt…d'ya think you c-could come help me? I've fallin' an' I can't get up." He realized what he'd just said and began to laugh drunkenly.

"Wow," Thirteen said quietly, sounding stunned more than anything else. "Chase was telling the truth. Are you hurt?"

Wilson sighed dramatically. "Jus' my heart."

There was a short pause before Thirteen spoke again. "Why didn't you call House for help?"

More tears leaked out of Wilson's eyes, and he was beginning to feel nauseous. "'Cause he's the reason i' hurts," he sobbed.

"Okay. Listen,' Thirteen told him, "I'll be right over, okay? Don't go anywhere or do anything else stupid. I'll be there in fifteen."

"'Kay," Wilson murmured in response but she'd already hung up on him. He dropped the phone onto the floor beside him and fell asleep.

**~H/W~**

Wilson woke up, sort of, an indeterminate amount of time later as Remy Hadley smacked his face hard. He blinked his eyes open to see her looking down at him, frowning.

"You're as big an idiot as House is," she told him in disgust.

All Wilson could do was groan in response. He felt like he was going to throw up any moment. Thirteen seemed to sense this because she rolled him over onto his side just in time to keep him from aspirating on the vomit he brought up.

"Your caretaker is gonna be pissed when he or she sees this," she commented with a shake of her head. "I picked your lock. Help me get you up and I'll help you get inside your place before your neighbors call the cops and have you arrested for vagrancy."

As Wilson was doing his best to lift himself up onto his hands and knees he heard footsteps approach that were not Thirteen's. A man's feet came to stand next to him. Wilson looked up to see Chase standing there.

_Shit,_ Wilson thought to himself.

The Australian took one of Wilson's arms while Thirteen took the other and together they lifted him to his feet and helped him into the loft. Neither of House's minions said anything to Wilson or each other until they had him in the master bathroom.

"I'll go try to clean up that mess in the corridor while you get him into the shower," Hadley said, leaving the bathroom.

Chase called after her, "Sure, leave _me_ to be the one to undress him—nothing uncomfortable or embarrassing about that at _all_!"

Wilson didn't like the idea of being undressed by Chase either.

"Jus' put me t'bed," he slurred.

"You're covered in dirt, piss, and puke," Chase told him, "so no bed until you've cleaned up. Look, this isn't fun for me either. I'll help your with everything but your undershorts. You can take care of those behind the curtain. I'll be here in case you start to fall."

Chase sat Wilson down on the toilet seat and began to take off his suit jacket, tie and shirts, then pulled his pants off and tossed them into the laundry hamper, apparently not caring that they were made of fine wool and silk. Wilson felt too sick and humiliated to argue or say much of anything, actually. He climbed into the tub with Chase's support and balancing of him and then pulled the curtain around the tub. Chase stood by the tub with an arm in around the curtain for Wilson to grab onto for balance. Being careful not to look in Wilson's direction her turned on the water, adjusted the temperature quickly, and then pulled the valve to send the water through the hand-held shower head.

"It's up to you now," Chase told him through the curtain. His arm was getting wet from the spray but he'd thought to roll up his sleeve so it didn't matter. Wilson wobbled a little as he lowered his underwear and stepped out of them, one hand holding onto Chase's arm for dear life. The water was on the cool side but not unbearably so. Carefully Wilson picked up the shower wand with one hand and wet himself down, then set that down and picked up his body wash, fumbled with the bottle, and dropped it into the tub.

"Oopsie," he said and slowly bent over to pick the bottle up. "Good thing 'm not in jail," he mumbled, "'cause I dropped the soap." Wilson began to giggle in spite of the situation.

Chase didn't sound like he was as amused by the comment. "Wilson, just get soaped down already."

With the body wash retrieved Wilson popped open the lid and poured a more than generous amount onto his chest, dropped the open bottle back into the tub, and then rubbed himself down from the top of his head to his feet in the suds.

"You know," Wilson said almost contemplatively, "I could make House jealous by telling 'im that you undressed me an' I had a shower with you."

"Don't even think about it," Chase warned him, sounding annoyed. "One, I don't need the entire hospital thinking I'm gay—no offense intended—and two, I don't need to have a jealous House out to torture me before killing and dismembering me then dumping my body in some ravine somewhere."

"Good point," Wilson agreed before hiccupping. He rinsed himself down less than completely before telling Chase to shut the water off. Chase grabbed a nearby towel and threw it in to Wilson.

"Dry off, and then hold onto the edge of the tub while I go find you something to throw on," Chase ordered. Wilson did as he was told. Chase returned to the bathroom after a couple of minutes and tossed a pair of boxers, pajama pants, and a t-shirt behind the curtain. "Put them on."

"Okey-dokey," Wilson replied. He put his shirt on backward and his pajama pants were inside out but at least he was covered. "Ready."

Chase pulled back the curtain slowly in case Wilson wasn't really as ready as he should be. Satisfied that it was good enough Chase then helped Wilson out of the shower and to the bedroom where he deposited the oncologist onto the bed. Wilson looked up at him sheepishly, swaying slightly.

"Thanks. You're gonna tell House an' Cuddy, aren't you?"

"You need help, Wilson," Chase told him, sitting on the edge of the bed next to him.

Thirteen entered the room after knocking on the door jamb to announce herself. "The worst of it is taken care of," she reported. "How's he doing?" she asked Chase, nodding at Wilson.

"House told me he was taking sugar pills instead of Vicodin," Wilson blurted suddenly before he could think about what he was saying. "But I tasted one of his pills when he wasn't there an' it was Vi-icodin. He lied."

"And that surprises you?" Chase asked him. "I can't believe you bought the sugar pill story."

Wilson snorted and nodded. Sadly he said, "Neither can I. I wan-wanted to believe 'im. He told me t'stop drinking 'cause he wasn't taking real Vicodin. I'm stupid."

"Well, you're in love with him," Thirteen said, crossing her arms in front of her. "It comes with the territory."

Wilson looked up at her in surprise. "How'd you know?"

Thirteen smiled slightly. "Please! I've known since I first started working for House. The two of you were the only ones who couldn't seem to figure it out. By the way, Chase, you, Foreman and Taub owe me a hundred bucks each."

"Whatever," Chase told her, rolling his eyes. "Look, we have to get back to the hospital. Are you going to be alright?"

"I can't do much harm in bed," Wilson answered glumly.

"I'll bring you a basin or something in case you need to vomit, then we're out of here," Thirteen told him, heading into the bathroom.

"Cabinet near the door," Wilson told her. Chase got up from the bed and helped Wilson get under the covers. She returned and placed the basin on the floor within reach of the bed and placed a glass of water on the night stand.

"If you get into trouble, call again," Chase told him. "But just sleep this off. We'll deal with this tomorrow."

Wilson nodded and watched them go. He heard the front door open and shut as they left the loft. He wasn't looking forward to facing Cuddy and House when they found out about this. Before long he was asleep.


	22. Chapter 22

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Twenty-two

Wilson woke after ten the next morning with a hangover to rival the worst that he'd ever had before. Despite his desire to rush getting ready and get to the hospital his nausea and splitting headache had a lot to say about it. He called himself a cab to get to work; after work he would catch a cab back to the bar he'd been at the night before to pick up his keys and car. He didn't remember a lot of what had happened the night before but he did remember getting hammered and then ending up somehow on the floor. Chase and Thirteen showed up and carried him into his apartment. He vaguely remembered taking a shower and that Chase was there—_Chase was there?_ –no…no, that couldn't be right. He was so drunk it was possible he could have been convinced to shower with Chase, he supposed—though he prayed he hadn't—but as far as he could remember Chase hadn't been drunk and Wilson highly doubted the younger doctor was so inclined to do that sort of thing with another man, much less him. At least, he hoped not.

Somehow he managed to get out the door of the loft. Thirteen had done a pretty good job cleaning up his mess, he noticed, as he hurried to the elevator. His stomach was lurching and he hoped the aspirin he'd taken before leaving would start to take effect soon.

When he reached the street to wait for his cab he slowed down cautiously when he saw a stranger leaning against a black sedan, staring at him. He was Caucasian, in his mid-forties with chestnut brown hair. Of trim build, he was fairly attractive, and well dressed in a business suit and tie and charcoal colored overcoat. He was smoking a cigarette but as soon as he saw Wilson he dropped it onto the ground and crushed it beneath his expensive Italian dress shoes.

"Dr. Wilson," the stranger said to him in flawless English with a friendly smile. "It's nice to finally meet you."

Wilson didn't feel the same way. He remained at a distance, eyeing the other man warily.

"Do I know you?"

"Not yet," the stranger answered, still smiling and shaking his head. He extended a hand. "My name's Special Agent Peter Hunt; I'm from the FBI."

Wilson ignored the hand. "May I see some credentials?"

"Of course," Hunt answered. He reached inside his overcoat and pulled out a wallet, flipping it open to expose a badge and an ID card. Wilson took a step closer to get a better look. It appeared to be authentic, though he had only seen FBI badges up close on television.

"O-kaay," Wilson said slowly, "what can I do for you?"

"I'm here to talk with you about Dr. Gregory House, Dr. Wilson. Can you spare a few minutes?"

"Actually," Wilson answered quickly, "no…I'm actually running late as it is. I have to get to work—"

"Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital," Hunt told him, nodding knowingly. "You're chief of the oncology department there. Gregory House is your good friend. You have adjoining offices and share a balcony. On your cabinet in your office is a stuffed bear dressed like a doctor which one of your juvenile patients gave you as a gift. You're running late because you overindulged last night and slept in and you're sick as a dog, aren't you? I promise, it will only take a few minutes of your time. In fact, as long as it takes me to give you a lift to work."

Wilson's stomach began to churn even more than it was earlier. He remembered House telling him that the people controlling him were in control of the FBI. Then again, House had lied to him about the Vicodin, so who knew what else had been a lie as well.

"Actually, I just called a cab," Wilson protested but this only made Hunt chuckle.

"I know," he told Wilson. "I just sent the cab away." He stood up and walked to the passenger door, opening it. "Please get into the car, Doctor. There's no point in wasting time getting you to work, is there?"

Fear gripped him but Wilson told himself to chill. It appeared he had very little choice; if this guy really was FBI then he didn't want to get into trouble with him. If he wasn't, disobeying could mean a bullet between the eyes followed by one between House's.

"I guess not," Wilson agreed cautiously. He swallowed hard and approached the sedan, hesitated at the door, then finally climbed into the passenger seat but didn't do up his seatbelt. Hunt closed the door then rounded the front of the car and climbed into the passenger seat.

"Buckle up, Dr. Wilson," Hunt advised him as he turned the key in the ignition and put the car into gear. Wilson was tempted to jump out of the car and flee by foot but realized there was no way he could outrun the man he sat next to. With hands that trembled ever-so-slightly, Wilson did up his seatbelt. Hunt steered the car into traffic.

"Okay," Wilson said, trying to sound braver than he felt, "what do you want to talk to me about concerning House? He's not in any trouble, is he?"

"Well now," Hunt responded, glancing sidelong at him, "that depends upon your definition of trouble. Legally with the FBI? Not yet. In danger for his life? Well, see, that's what I want to discuss with you."

Wilson wasn't about to volunteer any information. He had no idea who this guy really was or what he was up to and he wasn't going to betray House. For all he knew this Hunt person could be an operative in the employ of the same puppet masters Dominika and that Boyko character were. He knew it was foolish to be driving around Princeton with a man he knew nothing about wanting information on his best friend but…well, here he was.

"I don't know how I can help you," Wilson told him flatly, staring straight out the windshield.

"You're familiar with a woman named Dominika Petrova?" Hunt asked him.

"Yes," Wilson sighed. "She's House's wife. They were married a few weeks ago. I don't know her well, however. Why?"

"Ms. Petrova isn't who she claims to be, and your friend's association with her may place him in a very precarious position," Hunt told her. "Her real name is Galina Belyakova, and she is already married to Leonid Aleksashkin, chief secretary to the Russian Minister of the Interior. She is a known agent of an arm of the largest faction in the Russian mafia; I won't bore you with names. She's under investigation in the United Kingdom and the United States for the murder of three mob kingpins of the _Cosa Nostra_. In other words, Dr. Wilson, she's a trained assassin that has connections to both organized crime and Russian intelligence with dozens of notches on her belt to show for it."

Wilson turned his face to look at Hunt with eyes the size of dinner plates. A trained assassin? House had suggested her ties to the Russian mafia and possibly to the international intelligence community but an _assassin_? He felt his blood run cold. He honestly had no idea what to say to that.

"We also know that the marriage of convenience that Dr. House entered into with Belyakova a.k.a. Dominika Petrova was phony. No marriage license was filed for and no registration of marriage was submitted to the State of New Jersey vital statistics bureau. We want to know how deeply involved he is in their business and what exactly it is he's doing for them."

Wilson's mind was spinning. _Shit, shit, shit, shit!_ He took a deep breath, trying to slow the pounding of his heart in his chest enough that he could actually manage to speak. Did he tell this guy the truth or did he claim complete ignorance?

"Agent Hunt," Wilson said slowly, choosing his words carefully, "I honestly don't know anything about any of that. All I do know is that House surprised the hell out of me when he announced that he was getting married to Dominika, or whoever she is. He broke up recently with a woman he'd been pursuing for years and was dating for nearly a year before the relationship ended."

"That would be Dr. Lisa Cuddy, the Dean of Medicine at the hospital where both you and Dr. House work?" Hunt asked to confirm. It was obvious he knew that for a fact and was waiting to see how Wilson would respond.

"That's correct,' Wilson answered with a nod. he swallowed hard and licked his lips before continuing. "House took the break up very hard and…," Wilson sighed, "well, House is an opiate addict. He developed his addiction after years of Vicodin use to manage the chronic pain he experiences in his leg due to an infarction that took place years ago. He went through detox and rehabilitation over two years ago and was sober until a couple of days before his relationship ended. He completely relapsed as a result and has been behaving very recklessly as of late—but he's not a killer or involved in organized crime. He married—or, I guess pretended to marry Dominika—as a business arrangement, or so he told me."

"And yet he lied to you about his marriage," Hunt pointed out. They stopped at a railway crossing barrier; a long cargo train was slowly crawling past holding up traffic. The FBI agent turned slightly in his seat to face Wilson, at least appearing to be earnest. "Dr. Wilson, I'm actually on Dr. House's side. I have reason to believe that he has indebted himself to them relating back to past gambling debts as well as current drug activity. If your friend is a relapsed addict, that would make sense. These kind of people never forget a debt, especially if that debt is _owed_ to them and not the other way around. I have reason to suspect that they've called in a marker from Dr. House and if so, he's in an incredible amount of danger. What I want to know is what they are demanding of him in payment, and I suspect that you know."

Wilson said nothing, pressing his lips together into a thin line and looking away from Hunt, back out the front windshield. Unseeing eyes watched tanker car after tanker car pass in front of the car as the peeling bells of the railway klaxon barely registered with him. He had no idea what to do. The last thing he wanted to do was say anything that would get House killed by Dominika and her lot but at the same time he didn't want to see House get sucked into that underworld so deeply that he drowned in it or ended up being arrested as an accomplice to some international crime.

All Wilson wanted was House—his House—back like he was a year and a half ago when he was still sober, still recovering, still sharing the loft with him. But no—because of him, House had fallen apart only to be used and manipulated by Cuddy until he broke and ended up not only in the throes of his addiction again but also involved with dangerous people who threatened his very existence. All of this because he had panicked and kicked House out of the loft so that he could shack up with Sam.

He was brought out of his thoughts by the movement and bounce of the car over the railroad tracks; the train had passed, the barrier arms had lifted, and the sedan was on the move again.

"Dr. Wilson," Hunt continued after Wilson failed to respond to him, "if you think you're protecting House by not saying anything, you're mistaken. If I know what it is he's gotten himself into I may be able to help him out of this predicament with minimal legal complications if he cooperates with us. He cannot beat these people at their own game, Doctor. He will end up the loser in all of this, and that could very likely mean his death. The best thing you can do for him is to tell me everything you know and help us convince him to cooperate with the authorities."

"I don't know who I can trust," Wilson said softly, and that was all he said until the sedan pulled up outside the main entrance at PPTH. Hunt put the door in park then turned again in his seat to face Wilson. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a business card. It held the FBI official logo, his name and the number and extension at the field office in Newark where he could be contacted. He pulled out a pen and jotted down another number.

"That's my private cell phone number," Hunt told Wilson, holding out the card to him. "Check me out, make certain I'm legit. Then call me with what you know. Better yet, have Dr. House contact me before it's too late."

Wilson accepted the card and stared at it for a long moment before stuffing it into his pocket, quickly getting out of the car with his briefcase in hand, and slamming the door behind him. He felt a little dizzy and wobbly on his feet and he wasn't certain if that was due to the hangover or the enormity of what was going on really beginning to sink in now. Regardless, he hurried into the hospital without looking back; he wanted to put as much distance between himself and that sedan as he could as quickly as he could without drawing unwanted attention to himself.

He felt like he needed to puke.

Walking quickly he tried to make it past the clinic without being noticed. His luck was not getting any better and he actually moaned audibly when he heard Cuddy's voice.

"Wilson!"

He thought about making a run for it but realized how juvenile that would be and stopped instead. He didn't go to her where she stood in the doorway of the clinic entrance but rather made her come to him. It was a childish power play but he needed to feel like he was in control of something just then.

"You look hell," she said softly when she finally stood in front of him.

"Thanks," Wilson said with mock cheerfulness, "and might I say how lovely you look today, as always."

She frowned slightly, and he saw both concern and annoyance there. "You're late again."

"I had a rough night," he told her obscurely. "Then I had to get a ride in to work because my car was undrivable." It was a long stretch of the truth and Wilson wished he felt guilty about telling it.

"Especially since it was sitting in the parking lot of a bar instead of your parking stall," Cuddy retorted quietly, everything about her saying 'cut the bullshit'.

Chase and Hadley; Wilson sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. His head pounded mercilessly.

"Look, can we have this raking over the coals later?" he asked his boss wearily. "As you've pointed out, I'm running late, I missed morning rounds, I have a desk packed high with paperwork, and a patient appointment before lunch."

"No need," Cuddy told him, still _sotto voce_. "You have an appointment with Dr. Garcia at one. I already had your assistant clear that hour on your schedule."

"Who's Dr. Garcia, and why do I have an appointment, which I know I didn't make, with this person?"

Cuddy's face softened somewhat, but her voice didn't. "She's a neuropsychiatrist at St. Sebastian's who specializes in the assessment and treatment of addictions, in particular, alcoholism."

Wilson felt his anger building. How dare she presume to—it was none of her business—!

"I'm _not_ an alcoholic," Wilson insisted through clenched teeth, barely able to keep the volume of his voice down.

"So you say," Cuddy replied. "I'd rather have an expert's assessment. This isn't a suggestion, Dr. Wilson; if you want to prevent yourself from being put on suspension then you better make it to that appointment." Her voice softened. "I'm worried about you. Cut the rope, Wilson, before he sucks you down with him."

They both knew who 'he' was. Wilson's face hardened. "It may be easy for you to toss away people you claimed to love to serve your own interests, Cuddy, but I don't have that ability. I got your message—I'll be at that appointment—but now I have _work_ to do."

Before she could respond to his venomous comment Wilson stalked off toward the elevator.

Wilson wasn't in his office five minutes when his door opened abruptly in a familiar fashion and House walked into the room. His expression was blank, hard and his eyes were ice. There was definitely something off with him, but Wilson couldn't place a finger on what it was.

House approached his desk, wordlessly extending a fifty dollar bill at him. Wilson looked at the money, realizing that it meant House was admitting defeat. He felt a strange thrill at being found right for once; opening his arms wide in acknowledgement, he took the money from House.

"**You were wrong. It's not the end of the world,**" Wilson told him, not gloating so much as pointing the fact out to House.

House met his gaze and the temperature of coldness in his eyes seemed to drop and fury joined it. With eerie calmness, House laid his cane across Wilson's desk and with one sudden sweep cleared everything off of it onto the floor with a crash.

Wilson was instantly anxious. For a moment there, he could have sworn House's gaze had been psychopathic. He began to tremble ever so slightly.

"**Anything else you want to say?**" House asked him, perfectly in control and yet…not; there was a steely quality to his voice that sent frightened shivers down Wilson's spine.

Was he actually afraid of this man? _It's the Vicodin,_ Wilson told himself. He thought back to House's violent outbursts when he was on Vicodin in the past and realized that it wasn't the same. House showed aggression in the past while in the heat of the moment, his anger or desperation flame hot, or in the effort to do the best by his patient when bureaucracy, hypocrisy, or lies stood in the way of that; once he'd calmed down Wilson had usually noticed flashes of regret in his eyes. The man before him now appeared to have no emotion; cold and calculating, he showed no sign of having a conscience. That's what was frightening Wilson the most. This wasn't the _Vicodin_; it was something much more sinister.

Wilson paused and took a deep breath to try to settle himself and remain rational. "**You have a problem,**" Wilson said cautiously. "**I think if you seriously look at everything that—**"

He was cut off by House walking behind his desk and smashing the glass over his framed _Vertigo_ poster with his cane.

"**Anything else?**" House asked him, still holding up his cane threateningly. He was clearly trying to intimidate Wilson.

Wilson was not looking into the face of the man who had once smiled at him indulgently and told him that he loved him while they made love. "**Okay, look, this isn't—**"

House raised his cane and made to smash the glass over Wilson's _Ordinary People_ poster.

Wilson jumped up and rushed to place himself between House and his poster, his shoes crunching on the glass that was already on the floor. "**Okay! Okay! Okay! Okay!**" he exclaimed, holding his hands up in a sign of submission. House glared at him with rage now bubbling just underneath the surface of the calm. House took a step back but still held his cane up like a weapon. "**No… I don't.**" Wilson mimed locking his mouth with a key and throwing it away. He was visibly shaking now. "**Just get _out_ of here. Go home. We'll talk later—someplace _without any of my stuff_.**"

In the state of mind House was in, Wilson saw him as a threat to the safety of everything around him and it would be better for everyone if House was in his own place where the only property he smashed would be his own.

"**Nothing to talk about. That was my point.**" House turned and limped out of Wilson's office, leaving him behind, standing in the wreckage. Wilson shook his head slowly, in a state of shock, staring at the broken office phone, shattered glass and scattered files and paperwork.

His stomach flipped, and Wilson found himself running from his office to the men's room where he didn't quite make it to a toilet before he began to throw up bile and blood.


	23. Chapter 23

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Twenty-three

Wilson was distracted during his visit with Mrs. Gentry, a seventy-one year old woman dying from uterine cancer. She was a widow whose children had abandoned her when she was told her cancer was terminal and would soon need twenty-four hour care. She was now in the palliative care department and not officially Wilson's responsibility anymore since deciding that her latest round of treatment was her last, but he had gotten to know her quite well and had become fond of her. She was gentle and chatty and amazingly accepting of her impending death. Shortly after her two daughters had written her off she had once commented to him with a quirky smile on her face that it was somehow suiting that it was her womb that was killing her. She hadn't sounded bitter; rather, Mrs. Gentry had appeared amused by the fact.

She wasn't talking much anymore; Wilson doubted that she had more than a couple of weeks left to live, but her eyes were still bright and her face animated when he came to see her. Her smile almost lifted him out of the depression he was experiencing.

"Dr. Wilson," she said, wheezing slightly as he sat down in the chair next to her bed, "long time, no see." There was no recrimination in her voice, only curiosity.

"Clara, I told you to call me James," he said to her with a small smile. "I'm sorry it's been a while. Life has kept me kind of busy lately. How are you feeling today?"

"Better than you look," she told him pointedly. "What's wrong?"

Wilson couldn't believe she was asking him what was wrong; she was the one dying, not him.

"What makes you think something is wrong?" he responded evasively, trying to hide it behind his smile.

"Because you look like you just lost your best friend," she answered, insightful grey eyes staring back at him. "I appreciate you trying to act brave around me, but I'd appreciate it more if you would just be yourself. The last time we talked you and that sarcastic ass had just spent a hot and heavy weekend together, remember?"

Wilson blushed. She'd been around a long time battling her disease and was uncannily observant of what went on in the hospital she was forced to visit so often and was now forced to live in. One day during an office appointment when she'd still been undergoing treatment, she had asked him if he'd finally managed to bed House. It had caught him completely off guard—House had still been dating Cuddy at that point. After that their conversations had been quid pro quo whether Wilson had liked it or not.

"I remember," he admitted. "You nearly outted me in front of your nurse."

"Yes, sorry about that." She didn't sound at all repentant.

He shrugged, indicating that it wasn't a big deal. She reached over and weakly grabbed one of his hands. "Tell Clara all about it."

"The last thing you need right now is to have me whine to you about my problems."

"Actually," she sighed wistfully, her eyes moving to look out the window on her side of the semi-private room her health insurance afforded her, "it's exactly what I need right now."

Wilson didn't know what to say to that. He hadn't seen her look quite so…sad…before.

"I spend too much time in this damned bed thinking about my life," she explained breathlessly after a few silent moments. "I think about what it would look like today if Brian hadn't died and left me with two little girls to raise on my own. I think about what it was I did wrong in their upbringing to make them the selfish women they are today. I remember the day when they were sixteen and fourteen when I took them to the beach and we spent the entire time laughing and swimming and talking—it was the best day of my whole goddamned life after I lost my husband. Pathetic, huh? The best day." She shook her head at herself, and then turned to look back at Wilson. "Listening to someone else's suffering makes me feel better about my lot. Guess I'm selfish, too."

He couldn't help but smile. Clara may have been many things, but he highly doubted that selfish had ever been one of them. "Well, when you put it that way," he teased before his smile faded. Wilson found himself squeezing her hand, drawing comfort from her.

"Spill," she told him. "I have no answers or advice—just two ears."

"House and I…it's over," he told her quietly, staring down at their joined hands because looking up at her was too difficult.

"How come?"

Wilson sighed, shook his head. "He's in trouble…and he's sick. He thinks that by pushing me away he's doing me a favor. He thinks he's protecting me from harm, but actually he's doing the opposite. The further he distances himself from me, the more it hurts. Now he's taking a drug that hasn't even been through human trials yet, back on Vicodin—"

"I thought you said he wasn't back on Vicodin?" she interrupted, lifting a hairless eyebrow.

"A few weeks ago he had me sample a pill to show me that it was a placebo that he was taking to fool certain people," Wilson told her, "but yesterday I tested one of his pills when he wasn't around and it was Vicodin. I don't know if he was lying to me then or if he started taking the real thing sometime since."

"Why would he want people to think that?" she asked, confused.

"It has to do with the dangerous situation he's in—I can't tell you any more than that—I'm sorry."

Clara nodded. "What kind of experimental drug is he taking," she asked, "And why?"

"It's a compound that's supposed to rebuild skeletal muscle mass," Wilson explained. "So far it has had very positive results—in rats. But the protocol on rats hasn't even finished and he's managed to get his hands on it to use on himself. I can't tell you how incredibly dangerous that is. Some of the side-effects on the rats have been extreme thirst and frequent urination, and agitation bordering on aggression."

"Has House shown any of these side-effects?" Clara asked, looking fascinated but also very tired.

Wilson tilted his head slightly to one side, wondering how the conversation had so easily gone off track. "Well, one of his fellows reported that he was showing signs of thirst, but as for agitation…." His voice trailed off as his eyes widened in epiphany. "Earlier he came into my office acting like the Terminator, smashing the stuff in my office when he had to admit that I had won a bet between us and I dared to try to talk to him about it. He was obviously raging yet there was no visible sign of emotion—it wasn't like him."

"Sounds like my daughter's first boyfriend in college," Clara said, her voice getting softer. "He was a bodybuilder who abused anabolic steroids. One day out of the blue he flew into a rage where he took a baseball bat and totaled his neighbor's car with it without any apparent provocation. An hour later the police found him playing in his parent's backyard with their dog. He had no recollection of the event. Years later they came up with a term for it."

"'Roid rage," Wilson finished for her, releasing her hand quickly and rising to his feet. "I'm sorry, Clara, I just realized that there's something I have to attend to—"

"Go," she told him with a knowing wink. Her eyes were nearly closed with sleep anyway. "Rescue your would-be protector. Have wild and kinky sex and tell me all about it later so I can be thrilled vicariously."

He chuckled softly and took the time to squeeze her hand once more before leaving her room. On his way out of the hospital he placed three calls on his cellphone: one to his assistant to warn her that he was leaving for lunch before heading to his appointment at St. Sebastian's, one for a cab to go to the bar he'd been at the night before to pick up his keys and car, and one to Thirteen to find out the name of the Princeton University scientist supervising the protocol for Compound CS-804.

While at the bar to pick up his car keys Wilson decided to grab some hot wings and a beer for lunch—he had no intention of doing anything more that day except a little paperwork—but kept it at one glass of draft despite craving more. He had to keep his mind sharp if he was going to figure out what was going on with House and the experimental compound he was taking, and how it all fit in to what was happening with Dominika or whoever the hell she was. It did ease the anxiety that had settled in on him, though.

He was tempted to call Special Agent Hunt about his suspicions but knew that he couldn't—at least not yet—without betraying House's trust in him. Wilson had learned from Amber that perhaps just as important as love in a relationship was trust, and as far as Wilson was concerned he and House were still in one. He would never give up on that; it's what got him out of bed in the morning.

After his quick lunch he drove to his appointment with the neuropsychiatrist Cuddy had booked for him. He marveled at how that woman felt that it was her right to interfere in his private life just because she was his superior professionally. How someone like House could have put up with that as long as he did amazed Wilson. It also explained why the break-up had sent House into a tailspin; despite House's protestations to the contrary, that's exactly what it had done.

He managed to find a decent parking spot at St. Sebastian's Hospital, a small general services facility that had been founded by a convent of nuns in the early nineteen hundreds. The building reminded Wilson of Mayfield with its great brick façade and gothic architecture. As he walked toward the main doors he got an unnatural chill upon seeing a stone gargoyle sitting at the end of a rain spout, staring down at him from its spot guarding the entrance from evil spirits and the like. He mentally shook his head at the pre-medieval idea.

At the information desk in the lobby he obtained the number of and directions to Dr. C. Garcia's office. Of course it had to be located in the psychiatry department instead of neurology. Wilson shied away from issues of mental illness for a good reason—his younger brother Danny's battle with Schizophrenia. When House had suffered his breakdown and the opiate psychosis that had gone part and parcel with the illness, it had been very hard on Wilson to watch happen to his best friend, the man he loved more than anyone else. Dropping House off at Mayfield had been both painful and terrifying for the both of them.

There was also the issue of his pride, as well. He didn't want anyone to think that he'd lost his mind and feared being seen by someone in the medical community or former or present patients and losing their respect and confidence in him. It was shallow and petty, he knew, but was the case none the less.

He found Garcia's office easily enough by the directions he'd been given and the fading signs painted onto the sallow and chipping plaster walls. The austere and utilitarian construction, and signs of age, in and around St. Sebastian's was a huge switch from the modern architecture and esthetics found at PPTH. Even the older wings of PPTH were more modern and pleasant in appearance than this place.

Her office was located in a larger section of the ward dedicated to offices rather than patient rooms and treatment areas. In the space between these offices was a reception booth and waiting area. On a magnetic board along the back wall of the reception booth were strips with each psychiatrist and psychologist's name on them. One column on the board was dedicated to therapists currently on duty and another for those who were out or off-duty. There was also a spot for two psychiatrists' names indicating who was on-call on any particular evening or weekend. He had fleetingly hoped that Garcia's strip would be in the off-duty column but of course that wasn't the case. Next to the magnetic board in a place of prominence was a large, gold painted crucifix that looked like it was about as old as the facility itself.

Wilson checked in at the desk reluctantly. Seeing a shrink right now was the last thing he wanted to do; he'd stopped seeing the one he'd gone to following Amber's death after he became involved with Sam. No, instead of talking to someone about a non-existent case of alcoholism Wilson wanted to be hunting down Dr. Riggin, the scientist in charge of the drug protocols involving the potential poison House was injecting into himself (Wilson was hesitant to believe House when he said he had stopped taking the compound, not if the rats were still showing increases in muscle mass with supposedly innocuous side-effects). He wanted to see the pharmacological data on the compound including the mechanism of action and metabolism findings in theory and in observation in the rat recipients. He needed to know what the metabolites of the compound were, how they were distributed, and how they interacted with other drugs—as much information that they had derived from their studies thus far.

He knew that he would probably be told that that information was proprietary in nature and would be top secret, so he would have to find it using below-board means and could end up in serious legal trouble if caught. It didn't matter; protecting House from harming himself with it was all that really mattered at this point.

"Have a seat and you'll be called when Dr. Garcia is ready to see you," one of the two receptionists told him with a polite smile. Automatically Wilson returned it and sat down in the waiting room. There was a twentyish woman sitting two chairs down from him and when he sat she got up and put another chair between them. He sighed silently, wondering what disorder she suffered from. He rubbed the back of his neck, drummed his fingers against his armrest, tapped one foot on the floor in rhythm with a song in his head and shifted uncomfortably in his chair several times before the receptionist called.

"Dr. Wilson?" she said, and it seemed like she was shouting his name on the top of her lungs; rationally Wilson realized that she wasn't, of course. "Dr. Garcia can see you now."

He nearly sprang from his chair to follow her down a long corridor to the office at the end. She knocked on the solid oak door with the nameplate that read Dr. Constanza Garcia. She opened the door and stuck her head in and said something Wilson couldn't quite hear before opening the door completely and giving him a brief smile before walking back to her desk. For a spit second Wilson considered bolting but stepped inside anyway.

Dr. Garcia was on her feet and rounding her desk to greet him with an extended hand.

"Dr. Wilson, how do you do?"

"Nice to meet you," he told her, shaking her hand briefly. He wondered if she'd noticed that he was trembling slightly and that the palms of his hands were sweating.

Garcia was right around his age, with dark brown hair, brown eyes and a nutty complexion. She was trim but not skinny, dressed professionally but femininely in a pale lavender blouse, black skirt, and plain black leather pumps. Her smile was broad and made to look even more so by her set of large, brilliantly white teeth. She had a firm, confident handshake and captured and held his gaze powerfully. In her left hand she held a file-folder and a note pad with a pen clipped to it.

She gestured to a small sitting area where a sofa and armchair rested around an oval-shaped coffee table. A vase of bright red and yellow gerbera daisies rested in the middle. She took a seat in the wing chair leaving the sofa for Wilson. He sat down slowly, feeling extremely uncomfortable.

"So," he said with a thin smile and joked, "am I expected to lay down on the sofa or what?"

Garcia smiled. "I'd rather you sat but it's up to you."

"Sitting's good," Wilson told her with a nod. After his divorce from Julie he'd seen a counselor a couple of times who referred him to a shrink for antidepressant meds which he'd stopped taking after a few months. After Amber's death he'd gone back for a few sessions with the same psychiatrist who had put him on a different SSRI. Though he hadn't really noticed much of a difference on that drug, either, he'd taken them for about six months before quitting those, too, and hadn't seen a therapist since.

With his previous experiences with mental health professionals, he couldn't figure out why he was so nervous this time. "I, uh, have to be honest with you right off the bat that I don't have a problem but Dr. Cuddy, um, my boss, was concerned and had overreacted a little. She meant well but I'm afraid of wasting your time." _And mine,_ he added under his breath_._

"Well, why don't I be the judge of whether or not this is a waste of my time, okay?" she told him pleasantly. She opened the file folder. "Dr. Cuddy mentioned that she was concerned by your frequent and excessive drinking lately. She believes that there is evidence both in your personal life as well as professionally that it has become a problem that is affecting your work and well-being. I have to tell you that when she called me she didn't sound accusing or angry but instead I got the distinct impression that she cares about you, that you're a good friend of hers and she's concerned. Would you say that's a fair assessment of her?"

Wilson paused a moment before answering. "Yes…I guess that's true, but she's mistak—"

"Mistaken," Garcia said with him, nodding. She was still smiling which was actually beginning to irritate Wilson. It was almost condescending—or perhaps that was just his imagination; he wasn't certain.

When he didn't speak immediately to that she asked, "Dr. Wilson, may I call you James?"

He nodded, "Sure, that's fine."

"James," she said, "as you can imagine, I see a great number of people walk in and out of this office and I can assure you that about ninety percent of them tell me at the very start that they don't think they have a problem. A few of them are right—they're not addicted, at most dependent upon the drug but it hasn't become an actual addiction. A few of those few have no dependency either. But the vast majority does have a problem that they don't want to admit to because of the shame, fear and stigma that comes with being addicted to something. Some are in complete denial and are completely oblivious to that which everyone around them can see as being a real problem and some are aware that it could be a problem, but they don't have the time, need, energy or courage to do anything about it. By the time people come to see me, it is very unlikely that there is absolutely nothing wrong with them at all. Tell me, James, your carry the title of doctor and you work at PPTH so I'm assuming that you're a medical doctor?"

"Yes," Wilson agreed, his brain still thinking about what she'd just told him even though he didn't want to think about it at all. "I'm chief oncologist at PPTH."

"That must be a time consuming, stressful job," Garcia commented mildly.

Wilson nodded before he realized that he was. "It is…but nothing I can't handle."

"Of course," Garcia acknowledged with a nod. "I wasn't implying otherwise. In fact, Dr. Cuddy told me that you have always been an exemplary employee and that's why certain aspects of your behavior recently have stood out as being unusual and caught her attention."

"There's been quite a bit going on in my personal life lately," Wilson explained, trying to sound nonchalant but he couldn't tell by the expression on Garcia's face whether he was succeeding or not. "Some of it Dr. Cuddy is aware of but most of it she doesn't. I admit I haven't been performing at peak efficiency lately but that doesn't mean that I'm an alcoholic."

"Well, why don't we cut right to the chase and see whether or not you fit any of the commonly observed criteria of an alcoholic, then, shall we?" she replied, pulling out a sheet of paper from her file. "I'm going to ask you simple questions that require a yes or no answer unless otherwise specified. Are you ready to begin?"

Wilson's anxiety level was rising again. He knew he didn't have a problem, but he also knew that tests like these could be skewed one direction or another or inaccurately reflect a person's true state because they were black and white, not allowing for the grays that life was made up of. Still, if it would get him out of there sooner by proving to her that he didn't have a problem, then it would be worth it.

"Sure," Wilson told her with an air of confidence he didn't entirely feel, "let's do it."


	24. Chapter 24

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**A/N 2:** This chapter is a short one, but I ended it where it seemed most natural to do so.

**Back Story**

Chapter Twenty-four

Dr. Garcia leveled a look on Wilson before she began asking him the questions and told him, "I want you to answer these questions honestly. Of course, nothing you say here will ever be repeated elsewhere, not even to Dr. Cuddy. I'm very careful about confidentiality. If you lie, you're only lying to yourself. Do you understand?"

Wilson felt better by her assurance of confidentiality, even though he didn't really have anything to hide because he didn't have a problem.

"I do," he confirmed.

She nodded and began to read off the questions. "Yes or no: Have you ever felt guilty or ashamed by your drinking?"

Wilson swallowed hard. He'd felt pretty humiliated about being picked up off the corridor floor by Chase and Thirteen because he was too drunk to get up by himself. He considered lying, but then reminded himself that if he did, it didn't mean anything to her, but it could mean a great deal for him.

"Yes." Wilson answered softly. Garcia glanced up at him for just a moment before continuing with the next question.

"Yes or no: Do you ever lie to other about how often or how much you drink?"

Sighing, Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing his headache would go the hell away. "Sometimes—I mean, yes."

Garcia made a little tick with her pen next to the question and went on. "Do you have family members, friends, or peers who have expressed concern over your drinking?"

He sighed mentally. He obviously couldn't lie about that one since he was there only because Cuddy had been concerned about him. "Yes."

Even Wilson couldn't deny that this wasn't looking the greatest for him.

"Do you need to drink in order to relax or feel better emotionally?" Garcia asked, her pen poised. When Wilson hesitated with his answer she looked up at him with one eyebrow arched. "Yes or no, James?"

Wilson checked his watch to have an excuse to look away from as well as to see how much of their fifty minute hour was left to endure before he could get the hell out of there and on to something much more productive.

"It's not as simple as yes or no, Doctor," Wilson told her, his hand going for the back of his neck and beginning to rub the tense muscles there without him even realizing it. "There are some days, ones that are been extraordinarily stressful, that I do take a drink with the thought in mind that it will help to ease some of the tension I'm experiencing, but it's not like every time I feel a little bit stressed or anxious or down I have to have a drink or two before I feel calmer and more at ease."

She nodded thoughtfully and then asked, "Out of the last fourteen days, James, how many of them were days where you felt that having a drink would ease the extraordinary tension you were feeling and you indulged in one or more drinks, where a drink is defined as one and a half ounces of liquor, six ounces of wine or twelve ounces of beer?"

He realized that she was smart; in fact, she was clever enough to have led him to paint himself into a corner. Wilson's expression was one of chagrin. "The last fourteen days have been…very stressful."

"That's unfortunate," she replied not unkindly before placing a tick down next to that question as well. "Have you ever 'blacked out' or forgotten what you did while you were drinking, James—yes or no?"

"No," he answered with more confidence now. There had been some mornings, like this one, where it had taken him several minutes after waking to recall the important bits and pieces of the previous night's events, but he'd always managed to remember, for the most part.

Garcia's non-reaction to his answer was the same as it had been with the yes answers he'd given previously. He did notice, however, that she made what looked like an 'x' with her pen next to that question on her paper with a quickly jotted note in the margin as well.

"When you drink, do you regularly drink more than you had originally intended to?" she asked.

_Every time,_ Wilson thought, allowing that admission to himself escape to the surface of his mind. This time his sigh was audible before he answered. "Yes…I do."

Garcia set the paper down onto the file on her lap and looked at him now with a gentle expression that wasn't quite a smile, but which wasn't a frown of disapproval, either.

"James, ordinarily when I run this questionnaire, if my patient answers three out of these six questions with a yes I consider him or her a problem drinker and move on to further, more intensive questioning," she told him gently. "You just answered five of them with a yes. From this questionnaire alone I can diagnose you as having a drinking problem. Now, determining whether that problem is simply abuse of alcohol or actual addiction to it, or as we call it, alcoholism, requires further examination by me and self-examination by you."

Uncertain that he wanted to do any more self-examination, Wilson squirmed in his seat for a moment and, fleetingly, he thought that he could use a drink just about then. He froze physically and mentally for a moment upon realization of that.

"James, are you alright?" Garcia asked him suddenly. "Do you need something? Perhaps a _drink_…some water or…tea, _or_…?"

His eyes moved to hers and he saw there a familiar glint, a sparkle of knowing and fascination that he had only ever seen before now with House. She knew exactly what had just happened and what he had just thought. How she knew that he didn't know, but there was no doubt in his mind that she knew. She had him where she wanted him.

"I think we're ready to move to the next questionnaire now," she told him after a moment more of silence; she was already locating the next list of questions in her file folder.

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose again before reluctantly nodding in agreement. Garcia leveled a look at him.

"These are questions that will help us have some insight into whether or not your drinking problem is alcohol abuse. Abusing alcohol doesn't automatically make you an alcoholic—yet, anyway—but all alcoholics abuse alcohol."

He nodded, understanding that and wishing she would just get on with it.

Garcia didn't have to read the questionnaire in front of her. "Question one: Do you find yourself repeatedly neglecting your responsibilities at home and work because of your drinking?"

Wilson's mind immediately went to the mess loft was in, the fact that he'd had to have Chase and Hadley pick him up off the corridor floor and carry him into his apartment and put him to bed. There were the increasing number of days where he arrived late for work, purposely or accidentally missed important meetings or made mistakes (minor so far, thank heaven) on his patient's charts, and showed up at work not quite sober, not to mention the backlog of paperwork sitting on his desk.

"Once or twice," he answered, avoiding her gaze. "I was forced to come here, after all."

Garcia said nothing to that and continued, "Have you found yourself using alcohol or being intoxicated in situations where it is physically dangerous?"

_Does driving to work while still buzzed count? Or cooking over an open flame while drunk enough to have difficulty standing up?_ "No." Wilson forced himself to meet the therapist's eyes briefly before looking away again.

Garcia seemed to see through his lie; her lips twitched slightly before she offered the next question. "Are you experiencing repeated legal problems on account for your drinking?"

That one was easy and Wilson didn't have to lie. "No, not at all." He looked at her and gave her a small smirk. Wilson knew that he'd been lucky not being stopped while driving buzzed. One of these days he figured he would be.

"Okay," Garcia acknowledged with a nod, unaffected but his smugness. "Do you continue to drink even though your alcohol use is causing problems in your relationships; friends have expressed concern or anger for your behavior, or are ashamed of your behavior while drinking?"

He knew he couldn't lie to that question and get away with it. He wouldn't be there with her if he didn't. "Yes…I guess I do. But this isn't my normal behavior. I find myself in a very stressful situation right now—what's the difference whether I take a benzodiazepine for my anxiety or I have a couple of drinks now and then? Once this period of my life has passed so will the heavier-than-normal drinking."

"A benzodiazepine or a mimicker has to be prescribed by another physician and can be carefully monitored and controlled," Garcia answered, ignoring his last statement. "Alcohol can't be as easily controlled, particularly when the doctor using it to treat that anxiety is giving it to himself. Using alcohol as a temporary solution can end up becoming a permanent habit, and your body can become dependent upon it. Once that happens, you've become an alcoholic." She sighed. "James, you're an intelligent person, so I know you're aware of all of this. I can only suspect that you ignore the facts because you are in denial of them as they apply to you personally. Such blindness is very common, and very dangerous. The last question is whether or not you use alcohol as a way to relax or cope with stress, which you've just told me you do. You abuse alcohol, James, plain and simple. You've put yourself in a place where you are at extremely high risk of becoming an alcoholic if you aren't one already."

"I can handle it," Wilson asserted fervently. He wasn't as certain of that as he sounded, but he told himself that he couldn't let Garcia confuse him and place doubts in his mind. "I can handle it, control it."

"Can you, James?" Garcia asked him, challenging him. "If I told you to prove it, to go until our next appointment without taking a single drink and using other, non-chemical relaxation techniques to deal with your stress, could you do it?"

Wilson swallowed hard. There was going to be another appointment? This wasn't it? How long would it be until the next one? Could he really hold out when it seemed like his entire world was crumbling around him?

Yes. He was certain of it—he could. It would be difficult, admittedly, but he wasn't an alcoholic and he could prove it. Once he did he would be able to get everyone off his case.

"I can," Wilson told her with forced confidence. "I'm not an alcoholic. I'm not going to become an alcoholic—count on it."

Garcia looked at him skeptically, which annoyed the hell out of Wilson. After a moment of contemplation she nodded and rose from her chair. She went to her desk, set her file folder down, and picked up her appointment book. Wilson rose quickly and followed her, anxious to leave. She wrote down a day and time on the back of one of her professional cards and handed it to him. Wilson took it and looked at it. It was set for exactly a week away, set for the same time. He swallowed again, his mouth and throat feeling very dry.

"Next time," Garcia told him with eyes that saw right through him, "don't have a beer lunch before coming here. It'll throw off the blood draw and urinalysis I'll be having you undergo."

"I guess you'll be telling Cuddy about this?" Wilson asked her with more bitterness than he'd intended.

Garcia shook her head and gave him a small smile. "You know I can't break confidentiality like that. No, this is a matter that stays strictly between you and me unless _you_ decide otherwise and tell someone. Good luck. I'll see you next week."

Wilson put the appointment car into his wallet as he left her office and made his way through St Sebastian's on his way to his car. He cursed softly under his breath and chastised him for taking up such a stupid challenge. He didn't have to prove himself to anyone, much less some shrink who didn't matter one iota to him.

House, however, meant everything to him; he forced the last hour out of his mind the best he could. Wilson's next stop was to see Dr. Riggin about an experimental toxin to try to find out what exactly it was doing to his best friend.


	25. Chapter 25

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Twenty-five

It had taken him some time on his cellphone as he drove to Princeton University to find out where Riggin's office and laboratory were located but Wilson managed. Actually, the hardest part had been trying to find parking on campus anywhere near where he had to go. He found a single spot in a public parkade available for $10 an hour or portion thereof or $16.50 for the day. It was blatant extortion, and Wilson had winced as he'd accepted a ticket from the automated vendor and had waited for the gate arm to rise and grant him access.

It was a bit of a hike to the health sciences building where Dr. Riggin and his research was housed and when Wilson arrived there he was perspiring lightly and panting softly. He shook his head at himself for allowing himself to get so out of shape.

Riggin either wasn't in his office when Wilson knocked on his door or his was refusing to answer. Since Riggin lived outside the insanity of Wilson's world, the former was more likely than the latter. He turned away from the door to head for the laboratory when he stopped short; a short, somewhat chubby redhead stood behind him, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"Can I help you?" the twenty-something man asked him.

"I don't know," Wilson said slowly, frowning. "Who _are_ you?"

"Adam Liske," the portly young man answered. "I'm one of Dr. Riggin's doctoral candidates."

"I'm Dr. Wi-Withers," Wilson introduced himself thinking fast and extending a hand to Liske. "I had an appointment with Dr. Riggin. I'm admittedly a little early. Actually, we talked about my stopping by this past weekend—"

"Dr. Riggin was here all weekend," the graduate student told him, eyeing him suspiciously.

_Shit._ "We talked over the phone," Wilson answered, saying each word very quickly and concentrating on not stammering like he always did when nervous. "Anyway, as I was saying I'm a little early. Is there somewhere other than this corridor that I can go to wait for him?"

"I don't recognize you from around the campus," Liske told him as he gestured for Wilson to follow him. They walked to the neighboring door, which he quickly unlocked. "Which department are you from, Doctor?"

"Uh," Wilson said, searching quickly for a plausible answer. He hated lying, but in this situation it was necessary. If anyone knew that he had come to Riggin they would be able to trace him back to House; since House had stolen the proprietary drug being tested, he could face serious legal consequences from whatever Big Pharma company was sponsoring this research if that fact was discovered.

"I'm from the Faculty of Medicine," he answered. "He and I were discussing his current research and its potential applications in the treatment of myotrophic wasting diseases."

Liske led him into the lab. The first thing Wilson noticed were the rows of cages holding both mice and rats. They were making a tremendous noise, he thought, as they squeeked, scrambled, scratched and ran marathons in their spinning wheels. There was the gamy scent of droppings and rodent urine and wood shavings. Otherwise the lab was ubiquitous, just like the many labs Wilson had seen during his life.

"Well, Dr. Withers," Liske told him, pushing his glasses up again before scratching the back of his head, "Dr Riggin is out to lunch right now but you can wait here with me until he gets back."

Wilson hoped he didn't show the panic he was feeling. That would definitely not do. He had to find a way to get rid of Liske before Riggin returned and blew his cover. But how? An idea occurred to him when he saw that Liske had begun to check on the rodents and make notations on a clipboard of what he was observing. Wilson pulled out his cellphone discreetly and texted Thirteen. Then he slipped the device back into his pocket and hoped that House's fellow had received the text and responded to it quickly.

When his cellphone began to ring and vibrate, Wilson smiled ever so slightly. The sound made Liske look up from his task to see what was going on. Making a show of taking out his phone and answering, Wilson said into it, "Dr. Withers."

Hadley's voice responded. "Withers, huh. Not bad. The geek still in the lab with you?"

"Yes, Sweetheart," Wilson answered, speaking loudly enough for Liske, who was busy at the far end of the lab, to hear him. "I'll be home for dinner on time tonight, I promise."

"Pretty good," Thirteen told him. "I'll bet you had many similar conversations with your exes over the years, huh?"

"Oh, Darling," Wilson replied, faking a chuckle when amusement was not what he was experiencing. "Your wit slays me. You really have to stop. Really."

He could practically hear Thirteen grinning. "You know, Wilson, you are just about as manipulative and diabolical as House. It's no wonder you two are inseparable."

What she said hit Wilson to the core. For a moment he faltered before forcing himself to continue. "I know I missed our dinner date last week, Darling, but work…."

"Hmm, no reaction to what I said," Thirteen pondered, ignoring Wilson's play acting. "Or maybe no reaction actually was a reaction."

"Of course I'm not lying!" Wilson practically shouted. "How could you say such a thing? Why would I lie?"

Liske was now staring at him, having abandoned his work to listen in to what sounded to him like a lover's quarrel. Wilson noted that with satisfaction. His little ruse appeared to be working, but Thirteen's end of the phony spat was distracting him. Was she catching on to him and House? Did she know that they were—or rather, had been—lovers?

"That's a good question," Thirteen told him. "Why would you lie to yourself about how important you and House are to each other? Is it because you're still lying to yourselves, or is it—?"

"Are you accusing me of having an affair? Sweetheart, that's ridiculous!" Wilson removed the phone from his ear and covered the mike before saying to Liske, "Uh, is there somewhere I can take this call…privately? The missus is a little upset…you know…women…?"

Liske smiled and nodded, pushing his glasses up. He gave Wilson a knowing wink and gestured with his finger for the doctor to follow him to the door that separated Riggin's office from the lab. He unlocked the door and with a sweep of his arm gestured for Wilson to go inside.

"Thank you," Wilson whispered with an appreciative smile, stepping into Riggin's office and shutting the door behind him. "Now look, Darling, I don't care what Gloria told you….Remy, are you still there?"

"You're a terrific liar, Wilson," Thirteen told him approvingly.

"I've been friends with the best for twenty years,' Wilson told her, talking quietly. "I learned a thing or two from House along the way. Look, I have to go. I'm alone in Riggins office and I'm running out of time. Thanks for your help—again."

He hung up and stuck his phone back into his pocket, then headed straight for Riggin's desk. There was no computer to be seen in the room, so Wilson figured Riggin used a laptop which he'd taken with him. He leafed through the papers on his desk, looking for anything containing the pharmaceutical information he needed. Finding nothing on top of the desk he next checked the drawers. Again, nothing that he needed turned up, though finding a bottle of male libido-boosting supplements was mildly interesting and fleetingly he wondered if they actually worked. Tossing the bottle back into the drawer he then moved to the filing cabinet. It had three drawers; the top two were open and boring but the bottom drawer was locked. This was potentially where Wilson would find the juicy information.

Wilson looked at his watch as he tried to come up with a way to open that drawer. He was running out of time. If Riggin took his lunch from twelve to one like most people then he would be returning in less than five minutes. He thought back to high school, when Wilson's older brother had stolen his term paper for English and had locked it up in his cheap two-drawer filing cabinet in his room. He'd managed to break into the lock using a paperclip. Of course, this filing cabinet was likely built sturdier and of better quality materials than that old filing cabinet of his brother's but to Wilson the lock looked, well, identical.

He went back to the top drawer of Riggin's desk and found a strong paper clip and straightened it as best he could with his clammy hands. He then bent the very tip of one end of the wire into a hook before crouching down in front of the cabinet and inserting the wire into the keyhole. He carefully worked at finding the cylinder and springing it with the hook; as he did the tip of his tongue extruded between his lips and he frowned with concentration. As a kid and then as a teen he'd been fairly good at picking bike locks, house locks, and the like. Of course, he'd never let House in on that little tidbit of information; god only knew how much fun his best friend would have at his expense if he knew. He hoped that it was like riding a bike—once you know how to do it you never forget. A drop of perspiration trickled from the hairline at his temple, down past his ear and along his face until it reached his lower jaw where it pooled until a sufficient amount collected to create a drop to fall from his face.

The familiar click and feeling of the tumbler give way under the pressure of his makeshift lock pick brought a smile of satisfaction to Wilson's face. He wasted no time with congratulating himself, though. He yanked the drawer open and began to thumb through the files and their contents, particularly the ones listed as _Classified_. He smiled again when he heard pay dirt.

Wilson froze when he heard the shuffling of feet outside the door leading into the lab. He swallowed hard and then said loudly, "That's preposterous, Sweetheart! I only have eyes for you!"

The shuffling footsteps disappeared and he took a deep breath. There was no more time to waste. It was two minutes to one. He pulled out the file he wanted and took out the pages he needed. There was no photocopier _per se_ in the office, but there was a wireless four-in-one printer in the corner. He offered a prayer of thanks to whomever or whatever was responsible for that printer being there. He lifted the lid to the scanner and put the first page down, then shut the lid and pressed copy. The scanner came to life and digitized the original then printed it onto a new piece of printer paper.

Wilson was just finishing the last page when he heard footsteps in the outer corridor approach the door. Faster than he thought he was capable, Wilson grabbed his copies and shoved them into the inner breast pocket of his jacket put the originals back into the file folder before shoving _that _back into the drawer, closing it as silently as he could before launching himself for the door leading into the lab. He was just closing that door behind him as Riggin opened the other door and stepped into his office.

Liske turned to look at Wilson as he entered the lab as suddenly as he did. Wilson hoped he didn't look as flustered as he felt. He took a deep breath and then smiled disarmingly at the graduate student. He had to get the hell out of there and quick.

"Well, I'm afraid I have a family emergency that I have to attend to right away," Wilson told Liske as he strode toward the door leading into the corridor. "Please give my apologies to Dr. Riggin and tell him to give me a call one of these days—we'll do lunch. Bye."

Liske waved farewell with his fingers, looking completely baffled, but Wilson didn't see it because he was already jogging toward the elevator, hoping that it came quickly to help him make his getaway. He pressed the call button, furtively looking down toward Riggin's lab. Any moment Wilson expected Riggin to burst out of his office and start yelling 'Security, stop that man!' or the like and chase after him. The elevator arrived within seconds. Wilson bolted inside the car and jabbed at the 'door close' button several times in quick succession until the door did, indeed, close and the elevator began to descend to the main floor.

He strode as quickly across the lobby as he dared, not wanting to attract attention to himself. Once outside, he half-jogged, half-ran. By the time Wilson reached the relative safety of his car he began to accept the fact that no one had set off an alarm; there were no campus security officers pursuing him. All the same, Wilson quickly climbed into his car and locked the doors before taking a couple of moments to breathe. He was trembling from head to toe from the adrenalin coursing through his veins. Once he felt more in control of himself again Wilson started his car, back out of his stall, and drove to the exit of the parkade where he grudgingly paid his ten bucks to the cashier before heading back to the hospital.

_House would be so proud if he knew what I'd just done,_ Wilson thought ruefully. He'd just stolen proprietary information like a common criminal, a crime that could earn him serious jail time if he ever got caught. It was terrible and he knew that he should be ashamed of himself.

So why, then, was he smiling from ear to ear and chuckling lightheartedly for the first time in a very long time?

Wilson spent the rest of his afternoon at the hospital seeing patients and working on his pile of overdue paperwork, but he was frequently distracted by the sight of his briefcase where it rested next to his desk. He'd hidden the reproductions of the stolen information on Compound CS-804 inside it, planning on taking them home to study that evening. House hadn't shown up to distract him and slow him down so he actually made a sizable dent in the backlog.

By six he was anxious to get home. In fact, he was anxious period. Wilson heard Garcia's voice in his head, asking him if he experienced anxiety after an extended period without alcohol, and tried to push those thoughts away. He had plenty of reasons to be anxious and none of them included alcohol. She was wrong, just like Chase, Thirteen and Cuddy. He ignored the way his hands shook as he put away what he'd been working on and packed up his briefcase in preparation to head home for the night. Wilson was removing his lab coat and reaching for his jacket when there was a knock on his door.

He opened the door to see Dominika standing there. His anxiety level spiked, also not because of alcohol.

"You wanted to talk?" she asked him, her eyes cold despite the small smile on her lips. "Let's talk."

So she'd gotten the message after all. He swallowed and nodded, doing his best to hide his fear. Backing away, he gave her access to his office. Dominika sauntered in, looking around. Her eyes fixed on the broken glass over Wilson's _Vertigo_ poster.

"I see you haven't taken that in to be fixed yet, Dr. Vilson."

_Of course she knows_, Wilson thought to himself grimly. She had probably overheard the entire non-conversation between House and him, as well as the smashing of glass as House's cane had struck it.

"I've been busy," Wilson told her with a shrug, and gestured to one of the chairs by his desk without bothering to take her coat. He was sure to sit in his own chair behind the desk before she could. She sat down gracefully, crossing her long, sexy legs.

"With House, apparently," she agreed. "And you tried to convince me that there was nothing going on between the two of you. Which story is the truth?"

"You know which one," Wilson told her, his hatred for her helping quash his fear somewhat. "He told me the bare bones story about exactly what it is you've forced him into doing. I don't know names or details, but I know you're coercing him into diagnosing your leader on the down low. I also know you've threatened his life if he refuses to do what you say or fails to diagnose this mystery person in time. I know that I'm being followed, that my office and other areas of the hospital have been bugged, and that you're using me to blackmail him by threatening to hurt or kill me if House doesn't come through. He's tried to keep me from telling you this because he's been trying to protect me but we both know there's nothing he can do to protect me if you make up your mind to do me harm."

Dominika's smile broadened with approval. "I told Bohdan that you were smarter than you look. I also know that you will do nothing to cause House any harm. Bohdan isn't so certain of that; he says that since your unfortunate accident there has been a cooling between you lovebirds. He believes that your love affair is over, and you hate him enough to not only go after us, but House as well."

"That's ridiculous," Wilson insisted, sitting forward in his seat. "Look, after _Bohdan_ beat the shit out of me House got spooked. He was afraid that being involved with me was putting me into too much danger. He broke up with me to protect me from further attacks. We both know that whether he and I are together or not I'm in danger but House is convinced that if he distances himself from me you and your fellow goons will leave me alone. How could I hate him for loving me enough to want to protect me? What he hasn't considered is that I'm unwilling to give up on him and walk away to save my own skin. I have no intention of going after anyone. I don't want House to die, and I've got a healthy instinct for self-preservation myself."

"Then why did you want to talk to me?" Dominika asked him, squinting in suspicion.

Wilson leaned over his desk, folding his hands together. "He told me that he needs more information about the person he's supposed to diagnose, that what you've been giving him is not enough to go on. He needs a better medical history, for one thing. He needs to see the results of the lab tests already run—the numbers, the details—and he needs to know what has already been tried and done to not only diagnose but to treat your boss. He said that he told you that but you've come forward with nothing useful. If you want him to be able to save this person, you need to start giving him the true data. You don't have to reveal any names or revealing pictures—just the relevant medical data, and relevant means what _he_ deems as important, not you or your superiors."

"Anything else?" Dominika asked him noncommittally.

"A guarantee that once he's saved your boss, that you'll cancel off any further debt he owes and leave him—and me—alone, for _good_."

"Well, I must say one thing," she told him, raising an eyebrow. "You have balls to make any demands of me whatsoever."

"I love Greg," Wilson replied quietly. "I'll do whatever it takes to protect him. Do we have a deal?"

Dominika tilted her head as she considered it for a moment. "I'll consider it, contact my superiors with your requests, but I promise nothing, and I'm only considering it because I like House. You, on the other hand, I have no use for."

Wilson gave her a grin that showed his molars. "The feeling is mutual."

She rose from the chair and headed to the door, pausing before opening it. "I can see why House likes you. Underneath your soft exterior, there is courage. I'll get back to you. Watch your step. If you betray us, you'll lose your life, as will House."

With that Dominika was gone. Wilson exhaled the breath he'd been holding falling back in his seat. It was just…just too much. Somehow he and House had to find a way out of this insane situation before it destroyed them both. He thought about the FBI agent whom had contacted him that morning. He still had his card. Could he help them like he said he could? Wilson wanted to be able to trust him, to make that phone call but he couldn't risk it.

Wilson was looking at a file on his desk, trying to calm down enough to drive, when House barged into his office. A silent sigh escaped Wilson.

"**Ahem!**"

Wilson looked up at House as he entered the room completely, showing Wilson his hand. "**What's this? A palm. Hmm, useful for many things. Slapping, greasing, probably some other applications too. Right now it's ready for $50 and humiliation.**"

For a moment, Wilson had no idea what his friend was talking about, but he appeared to be in a much better mood than he'd been lately. It then occurred to him that House was referring to their bet over the boxing match; it seemed like that had taken place weeks ago.

"**He was actually sick?**" Wilson asked House in surprise.

"**He wasn't knocked out by the punch,**" House explained. "**He was knocked out by the clinch before the punch. Took a shot to the back of the neck; more specifically, to an abnormal growth of nerves caused by a glomus tumor. Kind of like a built-in taser. Sent a massive shock to his entire body, shut everything down.**"

Wilson had to admit he was impressed. House never disappointed, at least where a medical mystery was concerned; it was one of the many things Wilson loved about him. It was a relief to see him in a good mood, even if it meant having to put up with House's gloating.

"**Wow. Fascinating. Completely explains exactly how he lost,**" Wilson teased, straightfaced.

House's eyes flashed at the challenge. "**Oh, you are **_**not**_** gonna be like that, 'cause you got a lot more posters here.**" He tapped his cane for emphasis. Wilson didn't see the cold rage in House like he had earlier, though.

"**No, I'm not,**" Wilson agreed with a smile. "**Well done, House. You might have saved that guy—given him his life back.**"

"**Oh, no,**" House told him, "**he needs surgery. He's never gonna fight again.**"

Wilson fished the money House had given him earlier from his wallet and handed it over to him. As House turned to leave Wilson noticed for the first time bruising on House's face. It looked like someone had punched him. Immediately Wilson imagined Boyko hitting House and became alarmed.

"**What happened to your eye? You okay?**"

House gave him a smirk, and there was actually a spring in his step. "**Better than okay,**" was his vague answer.

He left Wilson's office but was quickly followed by Wilson, who had grabbed his jacket and briefcase, turned off the light and locked his office quickly to pursue him; Wilson caught up to House in House's office.

"Then what happened to cause that bruising?" Wilson walked up to him.

"I ran into a door knob," House retorted sarcastically.

"No," Wilson countered, growing frustrated with the run around. "Somebody hit you. What I want to know is who and why? Was it that Boyko character? You know, the one who put me in the hospital as a patient?"

"Nope," House told him as he packed his backpack. "I don't know who the idiot was…I was in a bar fight last night but I don't remember too much about it because I was pretty drunk at the time. Let's just say that he looks prettier than I do today."

Wilson grabbed House's forearm, drawing House's gaze. "You were in a bar fight? Why? How did you get home last night? Did you have yourself checked out to make certain that he didn't fracture any of the bones in your face—?"

"I'm fine," House told him, waving him off, which only served to irritate Wilson and cause him more worry. "We had a difference of opinion, I told him that I would allow him to throw the first punch, he nailed me in the face, and that's the end of the story. Quit worrying about me. In fact, I'm the one who should be worried about you after that goddamned stunt you pulled calling Dominika."

"She came to see me not long before you did," Wilson informed him as they left House's office and headed for the elevator. "I told her what I knew, which really isn't a lot. She knows that I won't do anything that will put you at risk. So there's no need to push me away anymore. We can go back to the way things were before I got beat up."

They reached the elevator; House hit the call button with his cane. Just as the doors opened Wilson was paged over the PA system to report to the main oncology desk STAT. He followed House into the car and the door shut. House pressed the button for the lobby; Wilson grudgingly pressed for the third floor.

"Are you sure that's what you want, now that you know I'm back on Vicodin for real?" House asked him pointedly.

"How do you know that—?"

The elevator stopped on the third floor and the door opened.

"Tomorrow," House told him. "Your stop."

Wilson wanted to ignore the page, stay on the elevator, and get an answer to his question, but he was never called to report anywhere STAT unless it was crucial. With an audible sigh he stepped off the elevator and watched as the door shut, cutting him off from House.

He strode quickly to the main desk in the oncology department.

"What's up, Keira?" Wilson asked the charge nurse.

"It's Mrs. Gentry," she told him carefully. "We just received word from Palliative Care that she…passed away ten minutes ago. I didn't want to spring the news on you over the phone. I'm sorry, Dr. Wilson."


	26. Chapter 26

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Twenty-six

Wilson sat at a table in the far corner of the busy bar alone, staring into his third double scotch; he'd already had a couple of beers before deciding to switch to the harder stuff. His plan had been to go home after learning that Mrs. Gentry had died alone after all, try to put that out of his head, and intensely study the stolen documentation on the drug House was giving himself. He'd done that and what he'd read had terrified him. He'd immediately called House's place to warn him about what he'd learned. House had picked up, told Wilson that he was busy and to make it quick. Before Wilson had been able to say anything, he'd heard a feminine giggle come over the connection followed by House 'shushing' the source. It had felt like a knife being stabbed into Wilson's heart. So House had been _busy_, likely with another prostitute because it sounded nothing like Cuddy's voice. Wilson hadn't said a word more to House because he hadn't been able to. Instead he'd hung up, grabbed his cellphone and car keys, and headed to his favorite watering hole.

_Fuck Garcia,_ Wilson thought as he brought his glass to his mouth and finished its contents. _Fuck Chase, fuck Cuddy, and fuck Greg, too. Well, that's not necessary—he's already fucking some filthy whore._ Obviously, House wasn't interested in reuniting with him.

He stood up a little unsteadily, dropped more than enough cash on the table to cover his bill, and managed to make it out of the bar without any staff noticing, in spite of the fact that he was definitely staggering; it was busy and the workers were busy with other things during those few moments. Normally, Wilson would never have driven in his condition, but he didn't give a shit this time. It didn't even occur to him to call a cab.

It really did make sense that House had tired of him—Wilson knew he was a loser. He'd spent his entire life trying to prove himself as being anything but; House was able to see through people's facades, so obviously he'd seen the loser inside and decided he didn't want any more of it. House would rather the company of hookers than of him.

Wilson reached his car and fumbled with his keys, dropping them. It was dark out and there was one lone lamp to light the parking lot; nobody else was out there so no one noticed the drunken man bumble around and climb into his car. Once inside he decided that instead of going home he would head to House's place and confront his former lover and the slut with him. He started his car and put it in reverse, backing out of his spot and hitting the side view mirror on the passenger's side of his car against the driver's side mirror of the car beside him, smashing glass and twisting metal on both cars—but he didn't even notice. That's because he'd turned the radio up loudly because a favorite song of his had started to play. He drove past the rows of cars on his way to the exit from the lot without causing any further damage, but he didn't stop before entering traffic to check if it was safe and almost side-swiped another vehicle. He received the blast of the other vehicle's horn and the indignant middle finger of the driver.

Somehow he managed to get to House's apartment building on Baker Street without any further events and parked two and a half feet from the curb out front. He stumbled getting out of the car; after righting himself again he weaved and bobbed his way to the building and up the flight of stairs, which appeared to be shifting beneath his feet. Reaching apartment 2B he leaned heavily against the door frame before pounding insistently on the door.

"House, lemme in," he yelled, slurring. "It's Wilson. Lemme in! Lemme—"

The door opened suddenly and before Wilson could finish his sentence House had grabbed him by the arm and pulled him inside, closing the door quickly behind him.

"Get in here, you lush," House told him, frowning. "You smell like a distillery."

Wilson nodded, waving a finger very close to his friend's face. "You're right. Where is she?" He managed to break free of House's hold on his arm and stumble into the living room, looking around bleary-eyed.

"Where's who?" House asked him, his frown deepening with his concern.

Wilson spun on him and nearly fell over; he would have if House hadn't caught him.

"The whore you'd rather fuck than me."

"How did you get here?" House demanded. "You didn't drive yourself, did you?"

"Of course I did," Wilson answered indignantly. "I know how t'drive. You didn't answer my question. Where's your hooker? Did ya finish already and send 'er home?"

House didn't answer him. Instead he half-led, half-drug Wilson through the living room and toward his bedroom.

"Wha—? What happened to your coffee table?" Wilson demanded as they passed it. The piece of furniture had been destroyed, the glass top shattered everywhere. There was a broom and dustpan left leaning against the back of House's sofa and some of the broken glass had been swept into a pile.

"Nothing," House muttered, glaring at him.

"Oh, sure," Wilson slurred when he realized where House was taking him, "_now_ you wanna fuck me. What? Didn't she satisfy you? Why didn't you just hire another escort and charge her to my credit card, too?"

"Shut up," House told him sharply as they entered the bedroom. The bed was still made—not _well _made, but for House it was better than nothing. Wilson wondered if House had made the bed _after_ his call-girl had left. Before he knew what was happening House had pushed him down roughly onto the bed face first. Wilson ended up with a mouthful of pillow. He rolled himself over to see House standing at the foot of the bed, still glowering at him.

"I hope you changed the sheets after she left," Wilson told him, trying to ignore the fact that the wall behind House was rippling like a flag in the wind. "'Cause I'm not lying in the wet spot ya made with her."

"I didn't sleep with her, you idiot," House growled at him. "Something came up and I sent her away."

"Why did ya call her in the first place?" Wilson demanded, tears welling up in his eyes. "Am I not good enough for you anymore?"

"You didn't get drunk because of her, did you?" House demanded.

"I got drunk 'cause that's what I do now," Wilson responded; the words were out of his mouth before he could edit what he was saying. It was the truth, but he hadn't wanted House to know that.

"I can't believe you drove here as pissed as you are," House told him, coming dangerously close to lecturing. "Are you out of your fucking mind? You could have killed someone; hell, you could have wrapped your car around a tree and killed _yourself_."

"Blah, blah, blah," Wilson spat back, not even trying to hold back the tears. "Like you give a shit…you couldn't care less if I bit it. You have your hookers, you have your _real_ Vicodin, and you have your steroid mimic—mimickers. You're just fine without me."

"Is _that_ what you think?" House demanded, nearly yelling now.

"That's what I _know_," Wilson told him. "Dominika knows that we've fucked and that you've told me about her and why she's involved with ya, but still ya don't want to be a couple again. You never really loved me, House. You told me what ya thought I wanted to hear so ya could get a free fuck when ya wanted it. And I'm the fool who loves ya regardless."

House was about to argue but then thought twice, shaking his head. "Believe what you want. I'm not letting you get into your car again tonight. I took your keys and I'm going to keep them until tomorrow, when you've sobered up. For now, go to sleep, and don't piss or puke in my bed."

"Where are you gonna sleep?"

"I've got a mess to clean up," House told him. "I'll decide where I'm going to crash after that." He limped out of the bedroom without another word and slammed the door behind him hard enough to make the room shake. Wilson stared at the door for several moments. Things had not gone according to plan, but he simply didn't care. Still lying on top of the blankets, fully clothed, he grabbed one of House's pillows and buried his face in it, inhaling the scent of the man he loved. Hugging the pillow tightly, Wilson sobbed himself to sleep.

What Wilson didn't learn about until months later was that House had left him in the bedroom and had sat down on the sofa in his living room, fighting tears. He'd kept reminding himself that he didn't cry. House had been worried enough about Wilson to feel helpless to do anything about it under the circumstances he was under.

He'd popped a couple of Vicodin before calling Chase.

"I told you to apprise me of what was going on with Wilson," House had nearly barked at his employee.

"Well, hello to you, too, House," Chase had responded sarcastically.

"Shut up," House had told him, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. "You were supposed to contact me if his drinking became worse. He showed up here tonight smashed after having _driven_ himself here. I want to know everything you do from the last time we spoke about this, now."

"He drove drunk?" Chase had asked, sounding stunned. "Okay, okay. It's been getting a lot worse. I haven't told you because quite frankly lately you've been treating him like shit. He's drunk every night from what I can tell. He's come to work still drunk, probably having driven himself there, come to think of it. Cuddy's noticed because he's been coming in late frequently, missed department head meetings, department meetings, rounds and patient appointments and he's way behind on his paperwork. A few nights ago he called Remy for help. She'd thought he needed a ride home from a bar but in actuality he'd somehow made it home without his car but was so drunk that he'd fallen outside his apartment door and couldn't pick himself up to get into his place. She called me and we both went over to find him sprawled on the corridor floor; he'd urinated and vomited on himself. We got him inside, helped him shower and change and put him to bed before we left. After that I felt I had to go to Cuddy."

"But not to me," House had spat angrily. What House had really been upset about was that Wilson had called someone other than him for help.

"Like I said," Chase had answered, his voice becoming hard, "I didn't know if you even gave a damn anymore. Whether you want to hear this or not you're going to: Wilson is in the state he's in because of you and your stupid, reckless, neglectful actions since Cuddy dumped you. Yeah, getting dumped by someone you love hurts—I know what that's like—but that doesn't excuse what you're doing to him by your behavior. If you care at all about him then pull your head out of your ass and start thinking about him. Every time you hurt yourself, you hurt him."

"I don't need a lecture from you about my friendship with Wilson," House had snarled.

"He needs serious professional help, House," Chase had informed him. "And he's not the only one. Cuddy forced him to see a neuropsychiatrist at St. Sebastian's today who specializes in addictions—she told him that if he didn't go she'd suspend him. Whatever happened there, it obviously didn't keep him from drinking again. He needs you, but you need to get clean again before you can do anything for him."

"I'll keep that in mind," House had sneered. "And you keep this in mind—if you fail to keep me informed about Wilson again, you can report to HR to pick up your pink slip."

House had hung up on Chase and had sat for a while staring at the phone in his hands, thinking about what Chase had said, still chafing at how too close to comfort the Australian's words had been. Things had gone too far, House had decided. Instead of protecting Wilson, his withdrawal from the man had only put him in a danger of another kind. He'd rubbed at his leg absently, trying to come up with a plan to help Wilson as best he could.

Wilson never slept well after getting drunk; he tossed and turned and after dozing an indeterminate amount of time he awoke to see dim, early morning light shine through the window as the sun seemed to struggle to rise above the horizon. The moment he moved two things became immediately apparent; one, he had to pee so badly that his eyeballs should have been floating, and two, he was about to bring up the contents of his stomach in a projectile fashion.

It took him a moment to figure out where he was, though he couldn't immediately remember how he got to House's place and in his bed, or why. It wasn't as important as his need to get to the bathroom pronto. He pushed back the blankets that covered him to discover that he was wearing one of House's T-shirts and a pair of his pajama pants. He was alone in the bed; the side that House usually occupied when they were together looked undisturbed. Wilson stumbled from the bed and rushed out of the bedroom and into the bathroom as quickly as he could. He swallowed hard repetitively trying to keep himself from vomiting long enough to empty his bladder first. He managed to flush the toilet before dropping to his knees next to it vomiting everything up, racked by what seemed to be an endless series of violent, gut-wrenching heaves. When there was nothing else left, he began to bring up blood. His body shook violently and panted for breath, moaning pathetically.

Wilson started when he felt a hand come to rest gently on his shoulder and squeeze gently. Another hand offered him a warm, damp cloth. Wilson accepted it and wiped at his face and then his mouth. He looked up at House, who stood next to him looking down at him with red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes that were filled with a hurt he would never express any other way.

House held onto the sink for balance and offered Wilson a hand up. Wilson accepted it, feeling too weak to manage to get back to his feet on his own. Once upright Wilson flushed the toilet again then went to the sink and turned on the tap. He used his hand to lap water into his mouth, which he swirled around and spat out, repeating until most of the foul taste from his vomit was gone. House gave him some mouthwash with which Wilson rinsed out his mouth. After that House used his left arm around Wilson's waist to help steady him and help him back to bed. After Wilson was settled, House wordlessly left the bedroom long enough to bring Wilson some salted soda crackers, a glass of water and a couple of extra-strength ibuprofen. Wilson took the things from him with a grateful nod of his head. After managing to get the crackers down and kept down Wilson took the ibuprofen with the water and then finished the glassful. House took it from him and got him another glass of cool water, watching as Wilson finished that one too.

Wilson set the empty glass on the nightstand. House had seated himself on the edge of the bed, staring at Wilson tiredly.

"I don't remember getting changed and tucked in under the blankets," he told House hoarsely.

"Don't worry," House told him with a shrug. "I didn't take advantage of you. You did a number on one of your side mirrors on your car—or rather, what used to be a side mirror."

"I don't remember doing that," Wilson said with a sigh. His head pounded with pain and he hoped that the ibuprofen started working soon to take the edge off.

"Not surprising, considering how drunk you were at the time," House responded, his voice holding a hint of reproach. "It could have been worse. You could have ended up as mangled as the mirror, or caused someone else that fate. Why the hell didn't you call me for a ride?"

"I thought you were otherwise occupied," Wilson answered bitterly, looking away from him. He didn't feel up to discussing this with House. He just wanted to curl up in a ball and die for a few more hours before having to face life, such as it was, again.

"I'm never too busy for you," House told him but that only brought a cynical chuckle from Wilson.

"If you say so, House," he answered. "I'm tired and I feel like shit. Mind if a catch a little more sleep?"

"Yes," House told him. "Jimmy…you need to stop doing this. You're going to end up killing yourself. One addict between the two of us is enough. I don't know how you found out about the Vicodin, but you're right. I started taking the real stuff after I found out you'd been nearly killed by Boyko."

Wilson rubbed his face, still feeling groggy and sick. He looked at House earnestly. "Why didn't you just tell me the truth?"

House glanced away, and Wilson could see shame touch his features briefly before being expertly hidden again. "I didn't know how you'd react. When Cuddy found out—"

"She dumped you," Wilson finished for him, sighing sadly. "I thought the lack of breasts, increased body hair, and my possession of a penis would have tipped you off to the fact that I'm not Cuddy, but apparently I was mistaken. I've told you—I love you on Vicodin and off Vicodin. All I require of you is to be honest with me, remember? Besides, I thought that we were no longer 'together'."

"Well, I don't know if you have more body hair…," House said with a smirk, which faded quickly when Wilson wasn't as amused. "You're an idiot," House told him, shaking his head slightly. "We've been 'together' for years. No matter what either one of us does, we can't stop that."

"So why have you been trying?" Wilson asked plaintively. "God, House! Do you have any idea what the past weeks without you have been doing to me?"

"I think I've just found out," he replied softly, grabbing Wilson's gaze and holding it with worried eyes. "Chase told me about the night he and Thirteen had to pick your ass up off the floor, clean you up and put you to bed. I also know now about your appointment with the addictions specialist today. Apparently it didn't go well enough. You need help, and I'm going to make certain that you get it. I can't watch you try to kill yourself and do nothing to stop it."

"Me, neither," Wilson told him pointedly. "You're doing that, and expecting me to just let it go, let you destroy yourself. _That's_ what's killing me. Drinking is just palliative care."

"Yeah," House acknowledged.

They stared at each other in silence. Wilson realized that both he and House had been dealing with their pain and loneliness the same way with different agents. The thing was, Wilson didn't want to stop. He knew that it would only be a matter of time before his pain became unbearable again.

Wilson rolled over, turning his back to House. He couldn't deal with this anymore. He was tired and needed to sleep, to escape from this hell for a few blessed hours more. He shut his eyes and tried to block out the world, expecting House to give up and leave the room. Instead, House stripped down to his boxers and climbed into bed next to him. Before Wilson could say anything about it House had pulled Wilson into his arms, cuddling the younger man.

"House—" Wilson began to protest but House cut him off.

"We'll talk more later, Jimmy. For now just…just let me do this. I…I need this. Just relax and go back to sleep."

Wilson sighed and gave in; after all, it felt so good to be held by House again, despite the circumstances, and he really was exhausted. Within a minute or two he fell back to sleep.


	27. Chapter 27

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Twenty-seven

Wilson awoke again to find himself still wrapped up in House's arms. The alarm clock on House's side of the bed read six-thirty-one. House snored lightly, his mouth next to Wilson's temple and expelling warm, moist air against his skin. As much as he enjoyed being held by him again, Wilson had to pee and take a handful of aspirin with a couple of glasses of water. He tried to disentangle himself from House's hold on him without waking him but was unsuccessful.

"Stay," House murmured, half-asleep and not even bothering to open his eyes. "Fuck work for one day."

"I have to pee," Wilson retorted, willing to promise anything to keep his eyeballs from floating. "I promise I'll come back."

Upon hearing that, House loosened his hold on him allowing him to slip away to the bathroom. Wilson did his business, washed his hands then splashed some cold water onto his face. He always felt scummy and grimy after waking up from a binge. His head pounded, though not as badly as it sometimes did. He found some ibuprofen in House's medicine cabinet and took a couple before returning to House's head as he'd said he would. Immediately House pulled him back into his arms, holding him securely.

"We need to talk," House told him, his lips brushing Wilson's shoulder afterward.

"_You_ want to _talk_?" Wilson returned sarcastically. "Hell has just frozen over."

"Shut up and listen," came House's reply. "I don't want to have to repeat myself. Are you listening?"

"I am."

"I was wrong," House said softly, meekly. "I thought I was protecting you. It took seeing you in the condition you were in last night and Chase kicking my ass for my behavior to drive home that I was wrong."

For House, that was a humble apology. Wilson felt his eyes moisten, but he fought to keep it at that point.

"When chase told me about the rescue he and Thirteen performed I felt sick to my stomach," House continued when Wilson said nothing. "And about you coming to work drunk and being drunk most of the time these days. I saw the blood you brought up last night, and I know that Cuddy has threatened to suspend you if you don't get help."

"I'm fine—" Wilson began to say when he was cut off by House squeezing him tighter.

"You're _not fine_," House told him, sounding frightened. "I don't want you to kill yourself with the booze. You need help. I know you don't see it—you're in denial, just like I was for years. Like I have been again lately."

"Your being back on Vicodin frightens me," Wilson told him pointedly, wanting to direct the conversation away from his drinking non-problem and to House's Vicodin relapse. "You lied to me about the placebos."

"Not at first," House admitted. "After you were hurt by Boyko…I know I fucked up, but just because _I_ relapsed doesn't mean you have to drown yourself in booze. One of us as a substance abuser and addict is enough."

"I'm _not_ an alcoholic!" Wilson exclaimed, pulling away from House enough to be able to look him in the eye.

"Well you're doing a great job of pretending to be one," House retorted snidely. "It takes one to know…." House didn't finish his sentence and diverted his eyes from Wilson's. "You're lucky Cuddy hasn't fired you for coming to work intoxicated."

Wilson scoffed at that, feeling more than a little defensive. "You come to work high all the time!"

"I'm not 'high' all the time," House defended, "but even when I am I can still do my job. You can't do yours drunk off your ass."

"It was only the once!" Wilson insisted, but even as the words left his mouth, he knew they weren't true. They both did.

"I can't deal with the thought that I finally had you and then lost you again so soon…Greg, when you shut me out, I felt like you didn't love me."

"I've never stopped," House insisted. "When I found out about you and Nora—"

"There _is_ no me and Nora!" Wilson maintained. "We just talked!"

"I know," House acknowledged, nodding. "I went to her place, ready to plot her destruction and ended up talking with her. She set me straight. She also told me about what we should do about our situation with Dominika, which she shouldn't know anything about, by the way."

"I'm sorry," Wilson whispered. "I just needed a shoulder I could—I mean, one sympathetic ear. You don't have to worry—I'm pretty certain that she wouldn't say anything."

"You _hoped_ she wouldn't," House told him, but from the tone of his voice Wilson could tell that his best friend wasn't very angry at him for his verbal indiscretion. House sighed, kissed Wilson's head, inhaling his scent; Wilson could hear the sniffing. "Jimmy, she already has."

Wilson looked at him in shock. "What do you mean—who—?"

"I was contacted by an FBI agent," House told him. "An agent named Bunt—"

"Hunt," Wilson corrected, sighing. "Me, too. But I didn't tell him anything. I denied knowing anything out of the official story. There's no way I'd put your life in jeopardy that way."

"Well, somehow he knows that something is going on, but he doesn't know what—that I'm certain of," House told him.

"Greg, maybe we could trust him?" Wilson suggested. "He could do something about this."

"What could he do?" House said mockingly. "Arrest Dominika and Boyko? Big deal; they're expendable as far as their organization is concerned. New pawns will be dispatched, only this time their sole job will be hunting us down and killing us. Hell, this Hunt guy could be one of their operatives. I told you, you can't trust _anybody_."

Wilson turned his head to look at House again. "Including you? I need to know that you won't push me away again. You need to tell me the whole truth and nothing but. I'm going to help you, whether you want me to or not. If we work together on this it will make my job a lot easier. You like to work with a team, to bounce ideas off of them to get their perspective in the hope they'll come up with something you didn't think of. Consider me part of your team with this crime boss you're seeking a diagnosis for. I'm not a genius like you, but I'm no slouch, either. That way I can keep an eye on you."

"And I can keep an eye on you," House retorted with a smirk, but there was a seriousness about his eyes that silently said that he wasn't joking. "Okay, but just remember—this is _my_ team. _I'm _the boss."

"This is a _partnership,_" Wilson retorted, "so we're _both_ the boss."

"We can't both be the boss," House insisted, "and since you're the girl in this relationship—"

"Bullshit! I'm most certainly _not_ the girl and besides, that's sexist!"

"You do the cleaning, cooking, shopping, whining—"

Wilson shut him up by kissing him; after all, turn about was fair play. House wasn't interested in leaving it with just a kiss. He began to peel his T-shirt off of Wilson and the latter was certainly game but reality was never too far from his mind and he broke the kiss with a hand on House's chest, pushing him back slightly.

"We have to get ready for work," Wilson reminded him.

"Like I said," House responded, "fuck work because I want to fuck _you_." He lightly batted Wilson's hand away and attacked the sweet spot where Wilson's neck and shoulder merged with his hot, wet mouth and talented tongue.

Wilson repressed the urge to moan. "G-Greg…oh, _god_…I c-cant be late. I'm already in trouble with C-Cuddy."

"Don't…worry about…the wicked…witch," House told him. "I've got…it covered." House's hand found Wilson's testicles and began to roll them gently.

Wilson gasped. "H-How?" he panted.

House pulled back, his eyes hooded with lust and he had a smirk on his face. "I set the clock back an hour before you woke up."

Wilson realized he'd been had. He grinned from ear to ear. "You're a deceitful and manipulative genius."

"Flattery will get you _every_where," House replied, whipping the comforter off of the both of them; he set his mouth back to work that didn't involve talking. He slowly moved his way down Wilson's body with open-mouthed kisses and the tickling of his tongue against Wilson's goose-fleshed skin. Annoyed by Wilson's clothing being in the way, House began to remove it like a man possessed and then resumed his descent across Wilson's skin until he reached the coarse curls of his pelvic region.

Wilson groaned, his fists full of bottom sheet and a look of lust and wanton abandon on his face. The sensations were incredible, overwhelming and when House paused Wilson opened his eyes and looked at him in curious impatience, bucking his hips upward.

"Don't stop!"

House smiled. "You're so hot, Jimmy. You're so fucking sexy!" He took Wilson's hot, hard dick into his mouth.

"Oh my god, Greg!" Wilson gasped, his eyes rolling into his head as his hips bucked again involuntarily. House smiled around him, taking hold of Wilson's hips and gently holding them down, bobbing, sucking, twirling his tongue around the head of Wilson's penis before taking him deeply into his throat again. His right hand moved to fondle Wilson's balls again while the other one continued to hold Wilson's hips down.

House moaned himself, hard as rock and completely turned on by Wilson's whimpering in pleasure and growing excitement. The vibrations from it caused a deep groan from Wilson as it sent insanely pleasurable sensations through him. House felt Wilson's testicles pull up close to his body and a second later Wilson came hard in his mouth. Quickly House swallowed Wilson's cum, sucking him dry before moving up and kissing him and sharing Wilson's own seed with him.

Desperate to be relieved of his tension, House found himself humping Wilson's leg. Coming down from the high of his mind-blowing orgasm, Wilson giggled, lazily opening his eyes.

"Wow," he said to House. "Oh, wow!"

House grinned. "You're welcome…I _really_ _need_ to fuck you, Jimmy…."

"Lube," Wilson responded with a nod, his hand moving to cup House's cheek. As if conjuring the tube out of the air House held it in his hand and warmed some in his hands after discarding tube.

Wilson rolled over so House could properly prepare him. "And I thought I was the Boy Scout," he joked, referring to how House had been prepared with the lubricant. Once he was ready he rolled onto his back again.

House was on him, ministering to Wilson's throat with his mouth.

"P-please," Wilson whispered, "want you in me so bad…!"

House positioned his dick at Wilson's opening and slowly pushed into him, moaning the entire way. It sounded so erotic that Wilson felt himself hardening before he should be able to again; his body was responding and behaving like an eighteen-year-old's, not that he was complaining. He looked at House's face, saw his eyes were closed and he had a look of erotic bliss on his face that was perhaps the sexiest thing he'd ever seen, and grinned.

Starting out slowly, House began to fuck him while kissing Wilson ravenously. Wilson moaned into House's mouth, it felt so incredibly good! Part of him wanted this to go on forever but as House's thrusts sped up a huge part of Wilson was eager to reach the mind-blowing conclusion ahead of them both. They were sweat-slicked, moaning, gasping, keening animalistically. Wilson grabbed onto his own cock, which already hard again but House pushed his hand away and wrapped his long fingers around it.

"Mine," he growled into Wilson's ear, and began to stroke him in time with his thrusts. All higher reasoning ability left Wilson as he lost himself in the pleasure House was causing him. He knew he was close so House had to be as well.

"Fuck, Jimmy," House panted, his thrusts becoming more erratic, "I l-love…I love…ahh!"

House came hard inside of Wilson, and a second later Wilson climaxed again as well. House had spent every last bit of his strength and collapsed heavily onto Wilson, his face in the curve of Wilson's neck, panting hot, wet breath at him. Wilson didn't mind. He was riding his own orgasm, so soon after the first, and was exhausted as well. That was perhaps the most intense of orgasms he'd had so far with House, and he couldn't help but grin like a fool.

A couple of minutes later House found his ability to speak again and murmured, "…You."

Wilson began to laugh and wrapped his arms possessively around his lover, feeling more than hearing House chuckle, too.

Wilson finished getting dressed while House still lounged in the bed, in no hurry to get ready for work. Wilson didn't have that luxury; he had to drive back to the loft to shower and change before heading to the hospital on time. He needed no further trouble with Cuddy for being late.

"I need to talk to you about something important having to do with that experimental drug you were on," Wilson told him. "I did a little snooping around of my own and found out that it is very dangerous, scary stuff. It's good that you've stopped taking it but I'm afraid that there may be some side-effects that may not disappear right away. I have all that information in my car but I don't have time to go over it with you now."

"James, you worry too much," House told him. "I feel fine."

"That doesn't necessarily mean that you are fine, though," Wilson told him. "Tell you what—we'll have lunch in my office and I'll show you what I have."

"You just finished showing me what you have," House retorted with a sly smile that brought a blush to Wilson's cheeks. "And I approve."

"I'll show you the _information_ I sto—uh, borrowed about the drug," Wilson clarified, hoping that House hadn't caught the little flub. Of course he hadn't.

Two eyebrows shot up on House's forehead. "You stole information about the compound? From where? Wait a minute—you didn't, did you? You _did_! You went to the university and stole proprietary information from Riggin's lab!" House's mouth fell open, and he looked somewhere between shocked and proud.

Embarrassed, Wilson decided it was too late for denial so he would go straight to rationalizing. "It wasn't his lab, it was his office. His locked his filing cabinet actually—but that's not what's important! I was worried about you after you went psycho with my movie posters—"

"I'm so proud of you, Jimmy!" House said, only partially teasing him, Wilson could tell. "So tell me, how'd you pull it off? The old bait and switch? Did you use your charm and sexual charisma to distract him—?"

"Greg!" Wilson exclaimed, shocked at his suggestion. He looked at his watch and then grimaced. "Damn it! I gotta go or I'll be late. Just come to my office at lunchtime, say 12:30? I'll give you all the sordid details then." Wilson leaned over to give House a kiss on the forehead but his best friend grabbed his head and gave him a passionate kiss on the mouth, throwing in a little tongue while he was at it.

Wilson smirked when he pulled away. "I'll see you later." He hurried out of the bedroom and then out of the apartment before House could distract and delay him anymore. When he got out to the street and saw his car—parked with the rear passenger-side wheel up on the curb and the nose sticking out precariously into traffic, he winced visibly. He walked up to the damaged—Damaged? Try missing!—side mirror and sighed; he really hoped he'd done that with a power pole or street sign and not a person or another car because he certainly couldn't remember doing it. He knew he was going to be sick when he got the estimates on how much it would cost to get a new one installed. However, if that was the extent of damage he'd done last night—and nobody had been physically harmed—then he was lucky. All the same, he was ashamed of himself for getting behind the wheel while as drunk as he was; he could have killed himself or, worse, someone else.

He jumped into his car, started it up, and pulled into traffic, hoping to make good time to the loft and then to PPTH from there so he wouldn't end up walking in late for work again.

Lunch came and went without House showing up at his office. Wilson sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He knew that House didn't have a case because he'd just finished up with the two he'd been working on, one official and one not. In fact, he couldn't remember seeing House come in to work that morning. The last time Wilson had seen him was when he'd left House still lounging in bed following their lovemaking. Of course, this wasn't the first time his lover had skipped work for the morning and had come in for the afternoon, especially if he had been scheduled for clinic duty in the morning.

Still, they had made specific plans to meet for lunch and Wilson would tell him about the toxicity of the experimental drug House had been on including the side-effects. House brushing him off like that was aggravating, rude, and…House.

Rather than waste his time moping about it, Wilson determined to find out if House was in the hospital somewhere avoiding him—and Cuddy—and watching his soap operas. He left his office and headed toward House's office. As he passed the DDx room Chase, who had been making himself a cup of coffee, saw him and called to him. Wilson was tempted to ignore him, to pretend that he hadn't heard him, and run for the elevator. Instead, he gritted his teeth and stepped into the room.

"Yeah?" he responded, hoping for nonchalance. He knew what was coming.

"Are you okay? You look very pale and there are dark circles under your eyes."

Sighing silently Wilson nodded. "I didn't sleep well, that's all. I'm fine."

This time it was Chase's turn to sigh, his eyes boring through Wilson. However, instead of lecturing him again about his drinking, Chase simply said, "Maybe you should leave early today, catch up on your sleep. If…if you need to talk—"

"Thanks," Wilson acknowledged with a nod. "I have an appointment with…with a therapist coming up."

"_Good_," Chase told him, a tiny smile appearing. "That's…really good."

Nodding, Wilson turned to leave but when he reached the door he looked back. "Has House made it in to work yet? We were supposed to have lunch but he didn't show."

Chase shrugged, taking a seat at the conference table and setting his mug down. "I hadn't seen him all morning but when I was returning from lunch in the cafeteria I saw him limping towards Radiology."

"How long ago was that?"

The intensivist shrugged. "Fifteen minutes ago, maybe?"

"Thanks," Wilson said and then headed for Radiology. He arrived there just as House was emerging from the MRI lab. He looked pale and preoccupied.

"House, wait up!" Wilson called, jogging to catch up to him. "Hey, you okay? You don't look well."

"I'm fine," House responded. The terseness of his answer immediately raise Wilson's suspicion.

"Where were you at lunch?" he asked, watching House's face for any hint of what was actually going on in that complicated head of his. We were supposed to meet—I was going to tell you about what I found out from that information I took from Riggin."

"I slept," House told him, leading the both of them to the elevator. It appeared that House was leaning a little heavier on his cane than usual. "I didn't get a lot of sleep last night—not that I'm complaining. About that information—"

"The compound breaks down into several different metabolites in the body," Wilson told him, cutting him off. The most abundant of these is fluoxymesterone. House, this stuff becomes an anabolic steroid and similar metabolytes which explains the muscle growth. The other metabolites are boosters, increasing the effect of the steroids on the body, including the side-effects like hypertension, increased LDL and decreased HDL levels and psycho-social side-effects like irritability and aggression. There's also an increased risk of liver disease, and you don't need anything more to threaten your liver than what you've already got. I'm just glad you decided to stop using that crap. It's one less thing for me to worry about."

"You worry too much," House told him; there was tension in his face that Wilson saw and didn't know how to interpret.

They reached the elevator as the doors opened and three nurses stepped off. After they had cleared, House and Wilson stepped onto the otherwise empty car.

"That's because I love you," Wilson told him once the doors had closed. "You know, you don't seem too surprised about what I just told you—about the experimental compound, I mean. You already knew that, didn't you?"

House gave him a smirk. "You're not the only one who knows how to pick the lock of a filing cabinet."

"And yet you still took it," Wilson said, shaking his head in disbelief. "You were willing to risk all that based on the hope that the drug would work and you might re-grow muscle where it had been abraded."

"I hoped I could regain one part of my life and be happy in one area, if not in all," House told him softly. "The ability to walk and run and bear weight on my leg again, Jimmy—can you really blame me for wanting that back?"

Wilson saw the sadness in those brilliant blue eyes and his heart ached for House and the loss he'd suffered and continued to suffer from.

"Of course not," he told House, stepping up to him and kissing him gently, withdrawing when the elevator came to a stop on their floor and the doors opened. House stepped off first and Wilson followed. "Dinner at my place tonight?"

House paused at his office door. "I can't tonight. Dominika has information for me concerning my mystery patient and I have to meet her in Camden for it. She doesn't trust you—"

"We're a team, House," Wilson told him, frowning. "Remember?"

"I'll fill you in on everything she tells me," House told him. "I may be gone for a couple of days but I'll call you and keep you updated."

Wilson stared at House hard. A red flag was beginning to unfurl in his head but he really didn't have any evidence that House wasn't telling him the truth. They had to trust each other if they were going to work out.

"Okay," Wilson said. "But make certain you do call. No more secrets, House."

House nodded, pushing his door open and walking into his office. Wilson checked his watch and sighed. He had an appointment in five minutes so instead of following House he headed for his own office instead.


	28. Chapter 28

**Title: ****Back Story**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson, L. Cuddy, other canon characters; House/Wilson pre-slash that will eventually become slash.

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, intrigue, suspense, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons including all of season 7. Some are quite specific and detailed. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: NC-17** for all the smexing as well as violence and serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, sexual and physical abuse, and suicide ideation—though not all chapters will involve explicit description of sexual activity (just most of them ;^D) or gore.

**A/N:** This begins the morning after the last scene in episode 7x15, "Bombshells". While it follows the Canon timeline, this story focuses on the happenings, thoughts and feelings going on in the story we don't have access to (or my idea of what occurred and will occur on into season 8. Of course, this will run AU because spoilers about the first episode of season 8 are already out and point out that this is definitely not the official explanation for the baffling events that occurred in season 7). More warnings in author's note for chapter one.

**Back Story**

Chapter Twenty-eight

Wilson was walking his patient to the elevator when Special Agent Hunt appeared, stepping off the elevator car as it arrived to take the patient down to the lobby. Wilson bid her farewell and the doors closed, leaving him and the FBI agent standing there alone.

"What are you doing here?" Wilson demanded, _sotto voce_. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching them but no one was paying them any attention.

"Come with me—we need to talk somewhere I know that no one else is listening," was all Hunt would say.

"I need to lock my office," Wilson told him. "I have confidential patient files just sitting on my desk. Let me go grab my jacket and lock up."

Hunt nodded curtly. Wilson hurried to his office, glancing in on House as he walked past his office. The diagnostician was at his desk closely examining radiological films, holding them up to the light coming from his desk lamp. Reaching his office, Wilson grabbed his jacket and keys and locked the office then returned to the elevator where the FBI agent was waiting.

"Let's go," Hunt told him, nodding in the direction of the stairs. Wilson sighed and followed Hunt to the stairwell and all the way down to the main floor, wondering why they couldn't have just taken the elevator down. He walked Wilson through the lobby; to his surprise, Wilson realized that nobody noticed that he was being led out by the FBI. Hunt was dressed well and for all anybody in that lobby knew, he was just another doctor going for coffee with the chief oncologist.

Waiting in the loading zone was the ubiquitous black sedan with dark tinted windows that Wilson had ridden in once before. Hunt opened the rear passenger's side door for Wilson. With a fleeting look back at the hospital entrance Wilson climbed into the running vehicle. Hunt shut the door and then climbed into shot-gun position. In the driver's seat was a dark-haired man he'd never seen before. He wore sunglasses obscuring his features and Wilson wondered if that was done intentionally or not. The car immediately pulled away from the curb.

"Look, time's short so listen carefully to what I'm about to tell you because I won't repeat it," Hunt told him. "This is Agent Gartner, my partner. You can speak safely in front of him. We know that House has been enlisted to diagnose and treat a crime boss out of Russia, the one that the woman you call Dominika and her friend Boyko work for. Our source says that he's been doing some kind of special assignment for them and now that it's complete they've decided they have to take him out of the game but they still need him for a little while yet. We're not certain what that means but whatever it is, it's going down tonight. Has House mentioned anything to you about this?"

Wilson said nothing, but inside he was freaking out. They were going to take House out of the game? What the fuck did that mean? Surely they weren't going to kill him if they still needed him, were they? Wilson still didn't know if he should confide in Hunt or not. Could the G-man be trusted?

"Dr. Wilson," Hunt said insistently, "your friend is in imminent danger which means you are too. I admire your loyalty but it's going to end up getting the both of you killed unless you tell me right now what you know about this!"

Wilson's head felt like it was spinning and his palms began to sweat. His breathing was quickening and he realized that he was going to have a panic attack if he didn't do something soon.

"I think they've been using House as a guinea pig!" he blurted suddenly and once it he started he found he couldn't stop until he told Hunt everything he knew, including the story about the experimental compound and the fact that House had told him that he'd stopped taking it because it didn't work plus his own 'research' into the poison House had been injecting into himself. "So, I think they were forcing him to test the drug on himself to see if it was safe and actually regenerated muscle before they stole it and gave it to their boss. Then House told me today that he's meeting with Dominika tonight—supposedly she's going to update him on her boss's current condition. He said that he might be gone for a couple of days. I thought about calling you when I heard that but…but I didn't want to betray him."

Hunt nodded understandingly. "You're not betraying him, Doctor. You're probably saving his life by telling us this—and yours, for that matter. If they know you're onto them you'll be a loose end they'll be forced to tie off."

"They probably know that I'm talking to you right now," Wilson confessed. "House says they've been tracking me for a while now."

Hunt exhaled loudly and then stared past Wilson as he apparently was trying to formulate something in his head. "In that case, I've got to get you out of here and somewhere safe until this all blows over."

"What about House?" Wilson demanded, alarmed. "He's in more danger than I am."

"We need him to lead us to the man he's supposed to be treating," Hunt told him, meeting his stare. "If they suspect that we're onto them they'll either kill him outright or go into hiding."

"So you're just going to leave him out there as bait?" Wilson demanded, astonished at what he was hearing. "I'm not going to go with you and hide my ass while his has a huge target painted onto it! I want to know what you are intending to do concerning him and I want to know right now. He may be just another pawn in this spy game of yours but he's pretty goddamned important to me and I'm sick and tired of this cloak and dagger crap!"

"We don't know for certain what's going to happen tonight," Gartner spoke up for the first time, still staring straight ahead. "We'll be tailing House on his little visit with Dominika. Wherever he goes, we're following. We won't let him out of our sight. If he looks like he's getting into trouble we'll step in."

"Are you going to tell him this?" Wilson asked, his stomach churning at the thought of how much danger House was in and how easily it could all go wrong if Hunt and Gartner screwed up.

"No," Hunt replied. "If he knows that we're surveilling him he may try to lead us on a wild goose chase or try to lose us. Even if he were to cooperate with us, something about his demeanor or actions might change and arouse suspicion; that could get him killed faster than anything. It's best he has no idea that we're watching him."

"House is much more astute than your average person," Wilson warned them. "He sees and attends to things that most of us would never notice. If he figured out that he was being followed by Dominika and her kind, what makes you think he won't catch onto your presence?"

"We've been doing this a very long time, Dr. Wilson," Hunt assured him, smirking confidently. "Don't worry; we know what we're doing."

"Yeah?" Wilson shot back dryly. "Well, so have they. Look how well that served them. I want an assurance that there will be more than just the two of you involved tonight. I don't want House's life dependent on you two not screwing up and there being no one there to back you up if you do." He wanted this madness over so he and House could move on with their lives together without the worry of being killed for knowing too much. "Where are you taking me, anyway? I still have appointments with patients this afternoon!"

Hunt reached back to him holding out his cellphone. "Call your secretary or whoever and have your appointments rescheduled. We'll drop you off at your car and then follow you home to make certain you get there safely. Your loft will be staked-out; nobody will be able to touch you tonight, Dr. Wilson. You have my promise."

Wilson sighed. "Will you at least keep me informed? It'll drive me mad if I know something is going down and I don't know whether or not House is okay, or if he's been shot down in the crossfire. I want a guarantee that I'll get updates tonight."

Hunt met his gaze and said nothing for a long moment before nodding. "I'll make certain you're kept informed."

Wilson reluctantly called his assistant and made the necessary arrangements, telling her that he wasn't feeling well and would be gone for the rest of the day. Once that was done he handed the cellphone back to Hunt.

"We're back at the hospital, Doctor," Gartner told him as the car slowed and came to a stop. Wilson lowered his window and realized they had stopped right behind his car.

Making to get out of the car, Wilson reached for the door handle but was stopped by the fact that it was locked.

"Are you going to let me out?"

"Make certain you don't call House and fill him in on our conversation," Hunt told him grimly, "for both your sakes."

Wilson heard the electronic lock release. He pulled the handle and the door opened for him. He quickly climbed out, slamming the door shut with a lot more force than was necessary. It took everything he had not to make a run for it to the hospital then straight up to House's office to tell him what was about to go down. He knew that he probably wouldn't be able to outrun the trained law men and didn't want to end up in a jail cell for the night—or longer—where not only would he be powerless to do anything to protect House but he'd end up out of the loop all together, not knowing if House was alright or not.

Ignoring his urge to run, Wilson went to his car, got in, locked the doors, and started the engine. Seeing that he'd started his car, Gartner backed the sedan so Wilson could pull out of his spot. Feeling very much like he was being abducted, Wilson pulled out of his stall and headed for the parking lot exit. The sedan began to follow. When Wilson stopped the car to be certain that it was safe to pull out onto the street he slid his hand down to his jacket pocket where he'd stashed his cellphone and carefully pulled it out, not wanting the men in the car behind him to notice what he was doing. He dropped it into his lap and drove into traffic, heading for the loft. At the next red light he pressed House's cellphone number on speed dial, number two, of course. Setting the phone on speakerphone he set it down onto the passenger side seat. The light turned green and Wilson continued driving as he listened to ring after ring. After the fourth ring, House picked up.

"What's up?"

"Greg, I need to talk to you," Wilson told him stiffly, keeping his eyes on the road.

"So move your ass out of your chair and walk over here," House replied, thinking that Wilson was still in his office. "Unless, of course, you're looking for some phone sex in which case…So what are you wearing, Jimmy?"

Wilson could imagine House wagging his eyebrows suggestively and couldn't help but smile in spite of the gravity of the situation. However, one glance into his rearview mirror quickly took care of that.

"I'm not in my office, Greg," Wilson told him grimly. "I'm in my car, on my way home with a black sedan making certain that I get there without any stops along the way. If they knew I was talking to you on the phone I could be in serious trouble—both of us, actually."

"James, what the hell is going on?" House demanded, his voice plainly expressing his alarm. "Who's in the sedan—Boyko?"

"Try the FBI," Wilson corrected. "They told me that something is going down tonight with Dominika, said they had an informant who told them that you were in grave danger. I'm sorry, Greg. I panicked."

"You told them everything, didn't you?" House asked him; he sounded more resigned that angry. "How many times have I told you that I don't need you to protect me?"

"And how many times has it turned out in the past that you did?" Wilson shot back. He took a deep breath, reminding himself that he didn't call House just to argue with him. "I don't want to argue with you. I called to warn you that they're going to be following you to your meeting with Dominika. They're using you, hoping that she and Boyko have plans to take you to see their boss and in the process lead them to him as well. Greg, please, don't meet up with Dominika tonight. Stay home, or, or come to the loft. I don't want you to be killed!"

Wilson heard House sigh into his phone. "I should never have involved you in all of this."

"Well, it's too late; you did," Wilson answered, slightly hurt by the comment but sounding angry, instead. "So now we have to work together to get out of this. Go straight home tonight and stay there. I'm going to be stuck in the loft all night—they're staking out my place, supposedly to protect me but more likely to keep me from getting to you."

There was silence from the other end that lasted a few seconds, and Wilson wondered if he'd lost the signal with House. "Greg? Greg, are you still there?"

"Yes," House said after a heartbeat. "I'll stay home. I'll find some excuse to give Dominika. I have…something that's come up today that I have to take care of there anyway. Stay put at home for tonight. Don't worry; everything is going to be alright."

"Hearing you speak optimistically only makes me more worried," Wilson told him, earning a snort from House. "Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

"You're such a girl," House retorted, but there was gentleness to his voice that neutralized the harshness of his words.

Wilson smiled softly. "Jerk."

**~h/w~**

Wilson pulled into his parking stall in the underground garage at his condo complex. He smiled when the door rolled closed before the sedan could follow him inside. Getting out of his car, He hurried to the elevator and rode it to the top floor then half-ran down the corridor to his door. He let himself into the loft and locked every lock on the door—the chain, the deadbolt and the doorknob lock—before leaning back against it wearily. He took a few deep breaths, releasing them slowly, in an effort to calm himself. It wasn't helping much.

Along with a spitting headache, Wilson had the overwhelming need to have a drink to calm his nerves. He was wound up like a top, ready to become sprung and end up in God only knew what kind of state. Yes, he'd promised House that he would stay away from the booze, but House wasn't here, Wilson didn't have any kind of prescription sedative on hand, and he felt like he was going to fall apart if he didn't.

In the kitchen he found a bottle of bourbon in the cabinet. Grabbing himself a glass as well, he headed to the living room. He seated himself on the sofa, set the bottle and glass down on the coffee table, and picked up the remote control for the TV. His shook so badly that he nearly dropped the device. Surfing through the channels, he found an old episode of Three's Company and settled on watching that; God knew he needed a mindless distraction, something that might actually provide him with some comic relief. Up next was an episode of M*A*S*H, one of his favorite shows.

Wilson poured himself a glassful of bourbon and sipped at it as he watched, forcing himself not to think about his troubles personally and professionally. Every time a worry occurred to him he took a swallow as if to extinguish it with the intoxicant. It wasn't long before his glass was empty and he was feeling pleasantly buzzed. Yes, that's exactly what the doctor had ordered for his anxiety. He was already feeling much, much better, and actually felt hungry for the first time in days. He didn't feel like cooking anything so he called for pizza delivery then settled back down on the sofa. It occurred to him that he shouldn't drink too much, especially before the pizza arrived so he held off on pouring himself another glass of the liquor until after the pizza arrived and he was eating it while watching TV.

M*A*S*H came on and Wilson couldn't help but notice just how much like Hawkeye Pierce House was. Both were irreverent rebels who were brilliant in their fields of medicine, cynical about pretty much everything and constantly getting themselves into trouble. Both had acerbic wit, were impatient with what they perceived as intentional ignorance and the ridiculous micromanaging of their lives with rules that didn't make sense to them, and therefore they frequently circumvented, bent, or ignored them completely. Both cared more for their patients than they cared to admit, willing to risk their own interests for those that were under their care.

He saw himself in BJ Honeycutt, Hawkeye's tent-mate, best friend, and long-suffering voice of reason and conscience, and could even compare Cuddy with Major Margaret Houlihan. She was Hawkeye's superior, just like Cuddy was to House, she flirted with Hawkeye in a love-hate dance of sexual tension for years before succumbing to his charms in spite of her better judgment, as Cuddy had with House. The difference, however, was that it was Hawkeye who had ended the short and ill-fated love affair with Margaret, whereas Cuddy had been the one to end things with House. There was also the fact that Hawkeye and Margaret managed to find a way to remain good friends and work together well after it was over between them; House and Cuddy spent most of their time avoiding each other and when that didn't work, were openly hostile with each other.

In the middle was BJ trying to keep Hawkeye from going over the deep end week after week, just as Wilson was with House. There was even the fact that they were all heavy drinkers. Wilson took a swallow of bourbon and smiled; he wondered if Hawkeye and BJ were as close as House and he were, especially now. _Naw,_ Wilson thought to himself. That would have been kind of awkward with first Frank Burns and then Charles Emerson Winchester sharing the tent with them; unless they liked to watch or join in on the fun once in a while.

Wilson giggled at that thought. He wondered who in their lives would be the Winchester to House's and his Hawkeye and BJ. The only person he could think of was Foreman, and that thought caused him to laugh out loud. There was no way Foreman would enjoy watching House and Wilson fucking or want to join them in a ménage a trois. The thought wasn't all that appealing to Wilson, either. Now, the thought of Chase joining in, on the other hand, wasn't quite so objectionable. He wondered if the pretty boy had ever been fucked up the ass before.

Oh God, the things he thought about when he was drunk! But at least he wasn't worrying. That was all that mattered. He allowed his mind to drift to different erotic scenarios involving House and him, and sometimes Chase was there as well. The TV no longer interested him. Wilson imagined House and him fucking on Cuddy's desk with her tied up and gagged and seated on her sofa forced to watch them go at it like horny beasts. Wilson realized he couldn't be as drunk as he thought he was because he felt himself becoming hard the more he fantasized until his cock was like rock and pressing uncomfortably against the fly of his dress pants.

Next, he imagined House and him on the white sands of a tropical beach, lying on a blanket (so that they didn't get sand in areas where the friction from it would be very uncomfortable), at sunset. Warm waves of ocean lapped ever closer to their feet as the tide came in. They both wore swimming suits and House's fine, tight ass was covered by a Speedo.

House lay next to Wilson, stroking his face and then kissing him passionately. The only sounds were the cries of seagulls, the lapping of the water at the shore, the smack and slide of their lips and tongue, skin caressing skin, and the moans of pleasure escaping them both.

Wilson's eyes were closed, and he had stretched out on the sofa by this time. His hand slid down to the bulge in his pants. He hissed as he ran it over his cock and the material of his pants and boxers brushed against him. His fingers began to pull at the button, releasing it, then went to the zipper and slowly pulled it down until his fly was open.

He fantasized that House's hand was there, pushing down his swim trunks as Wilson's hand pushed down his dress pants and then his boxers, freeing his erection. Cooler air hit the sensitive flesh and Wilson hissed at the sensation, everything registering as pleasure. Fantasy House moved his mouth to the tender spot behind Wilson's ear, sucking and biting as his long-fingered hands grabbed Wilson's cock and began to stroke him with the lightest of touches. It was tantalizing, frustratingly wonderful, and Wilson groaned appreciatively as his own real-life hand filled in for his fantasy lover's.

"_Fuck_," Wilson whispered as his thumb circles the head; but it wasn't his hand. No, it was 'House's', and 'House's' mouth was now leaving wet kisses down his neck and to his shoulder. 'House's' thumb picked up some of the pre-cum escaping Wilson's slit. He brought it to his mouth and then stopped kissing Wilson to lick the Cowper's fluid off his thumb. 'House' then smiled down at Wilson and kissed him, sharing his own fluid with him.

Wilson brought his wet thumb to his mouth and sucked on it as his other hand—fantasy House's hand—took over the stroking. 'House' gave Wilson's member a good pull, sending shockwaves of pure bliss through him and Wilson couldn't help but gasp out loud, following that up with a loud moan.

'House' began to stroke him with a firmer grip, using pre-cum as lubricant while his free hand reached under Wilson's hips and found Wilson's opening, tracing around the outer ring. Wilson moaned again, pressing his hips town toward fantasy House's fingers, wanting his lover in him in the worst way.

The waves were now lapping at their toes every time they came in but neither of them noticed. "In me!" Wilson cried over the sounds of nature.

'House' obliged, pushing one finger slowly and deeply into Wilson's opening.

"Oh God, yes!" Wilson cried. "More, oh please, more!"

So 'House' gradually pushed a second finger inside of him. Wilson whimpered and began to press himself onto the fingers, wanting to be fucked by them while 'House' continued to stroke Wilson's cock, stopping occasionally to tease his balls before returning to the stroking. Every time he raised his hips then plunged down onto the fingers for relief, with the delightful relief came the need to do it again, the desperation building. It was like being famished and eating the best food he had ever tasted, but with each swallow his hunger intensified.

The closer Wilson came to coming, the louder and more often he cried out. He was losing the ability to think, primal urges and instinct taking over. He babbled unintelligibly and 'House' continued to pump him, whispering filthy words and comments into his ear. The gulls were screaming now, the waves crashing against the shore and them with ever increasing frequency. Wilson's plunges onto the fingers were frenzied now, as was House's stroking and twisting of his cock. Higher and hungrier, Wilson felt like he was about to lose his mind with pleasure until he did, practically screaming out. He shot thick ropes of cum all over himself and the sofa, thrusting into the hand around him until he was completely spent.

He lay there, riding the incredible, mind-blowing high of his orgasm. All was silent except for the sound of his own panting and his blood being pumped past his ears with every heartbeat. It took several minutes before his ability to think and process returned to him. He slowly opened his eyes and saw that he was still on his semen-stained sofa, his flaccid member resting in his open hand, his other hand motionless beneath him. He'd accidentally kicked over his glass and his foot lay in the 'ocean' of booze all over his coffee table and dripping onto the area rug beneath. As he shifted his weight on the sofa, it squeaked, and Wilson heard the gulls again. He sighed despondently. House wasn't there, hadn't been, he knew. He was alone, half-drunk, covered in his own spunk.

He slowly sat up, wiped his hands on his already soiled pants. The TV was still on and 'Friends' was currently showing. He pushed himself off of the sofa and kicked his pants and underwear all the way off. Picking them up, Wilson then proceeded a little unsteadily to his bathroom, where he carelessly shoved his dirty clothes into the hamper. He didn't trust his own balance enough to risk a shower so he cleaned himself up as best as he could then returned to the living room naked long enough to get his cellphone out of his jacket pocket, fumbling it and having to pick it up, grab the bourbon bottle from the coffee table, and head back to his bedroom; he didn't even bother to clean up the mess he'd made of his furniture or turn off the TV and any lights that were on.

He pulled on a clean T-shirt and pajama pants, set his cellphone down on the nightstand, and then crawled beneath the covers on his bed, sitting up against the headboard and hugging his bottle to himself. Wilson thought about House, wishing he was there with him safe and sound. Beginning to worry again, he began to drink straight from the bottle. He hadn't heard anything from Hunt yet concerning House, and hoped that there would be nothing to call him about because House had stayed home and Dominika and Boyko had left him alone. He drank himself nearly to a stupor, and when he went to set the bottle down onto the nightstand he missed it and the bottle fell to the floor, sloshing and spilling the remainder of the bourbon inside of it onto the hardwood as the container rolled under the bed.

Wilson didn't even notice. He lay down, hugged his pillow, and passed out almost instantly.


End file.
